The Accidental Bridegroom
by Lono
Summary: A scheming mother. A fumbling client. The ancient Celts. All of them, in one way or another, bore the blame for the accidental marriage of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. And the fact that Sherlock wasn't terribly upset by the nuptials? Well, that was entirely his bride's fault.
1. Chapter One: The 'Bride' in 'Hebrides'

For **dietplainlite**

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><p><em><strong>The Accidental Bridegroom<strong>_  
><strong>Chapter One: Putting the 'Bride' in 'Hebrides'<strong>

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><p>When Molly arrived at his door two hours into his investigation, Sherlock didn't have to wonder how or why she'd found him. His mother's meddlesome machinations bore a brand of their own. He only spared a moment to consider the expense and manipulation Mummy had gone to in convincing a guileless Molly that her assistance was crucial to Sherlock, and necessary post-haste.<p>

He stared at Molly for several seconds as she smiled sweetly at him from the Welcome mat. He childishly took a moment to wish that he'd thought to flip it over when he arrived, as if that would have stopped this particular houseguest. And then he took a moment to wish he had slammed the door the moment he realized who'd knocked.

Even then, kind, marvelous Molly Hooper would only take cruel dismissal as a sign that Mummy's concerns were legitimate, and then she'd probably muscle her way past him and start clucking over imagined ills.

But even with those fleeting regrets, he couldn't convince himself that he was unhappy to see her. Not when she smiled at him like that. He couldn't spout off caustic words in a vain attempt to prove the materfamilias wrong; not when the coastal wind had pulled loose several strands of hair around her face from her short ponytail and the cold air had turned the apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose red. And most certainly not with the clenching belly, palpitating heart rate, and mortifying flush that flooded him each and every time he'd seen Molly in recent months.

Not when he'd actively sought her out so he could feel those horrid sensations even more.

So he just scowled and moved out of the way, waving her in impatiently.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently in greeting as she stepped inside. She brushed a concerned hand across his hip as she moved past, and he sucked in a quiet, surprised breath. "Your mother told me—"

"That I am in danger?" he interrupted with an eye roll, glad for the excuse to move away from thoughts about his body's reaction to her.

Molly actually looked sheepish. "Well, yes. She said that you had accepted a 'cockamamie' case that might well be the end of you."

_Cockamamie. The _end _of me._ It was even worse than Sherlock had initially thought. "How on earth would _this_ case do me in?" he demanded. "I'm not after a seasoned, stone-cold assassin or anything dangerous."

"You're not?"

"No! I'm looking for some ridiculous holiday-makers who've gone missing."

"Oh." She shifted a little, uncomfortable. "Then why did your mother—"

"I have my suspicions." He didn't bother to expound.

They stared at each other for a beat and then, in a burst of frenetic energy, Molly whirled back to the door. The timid pattering of rain—deceptively idyllic, not hinting at an oncoming gale despite the certainty of storming—was the only thing that greeted them.

She deflated. "He left me. He just drove off."

Moving closer, Sherlock peered over her shoulder. "Who did?"

"My transfer car from Stornoway. He didn't even want to drive me all the way out here, but your mother paid him ahead of time. I hadn't realized it until I tried to hire a car for myself at the airport and he waylaid me."

"Thorough of her," Sherlock muttered.

"Thorough?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. You're here now, and you've just beaten the storm. Are you hungry?"

"You can't take me back to Stornoway?"

Sherlock snorted. "If you're content to camp at the airfield for half a week, then certainly."

"Oh." She chewed her lip in distress. "This is one of _those_ places, is it?"

"If by 'those', you mean Monday-through-Wednesday-only air service, then yes."

"Brilliant." Her tone suggested it was anything but.

In a true Jekyll/Hyde moment, Sherlock mentally cursed what was to come even as glee swamped him over the unexpected turn of events. On one hand, Molly Hooper had been shoved onto a remote island because his mother was a matchmaking busybody who'd decided she was no longer content with her younger son's bachelorhood. On the other hand, Molly Hooper was stuck here with him for at least five nights and there was only one bed.

Turning away from the door, Molly actually looked at the room behind him for the first time. "Are you sure you're okay?" she insisted.

He glowered. It was quite easy to pretend upset, he was finding. Latching the door with firm emphasis, he scoffed at her. "Of course I'm okay. What makes you think otherwise?"

She waved a bewildered hand in a span of the round room and up to its billowing roof. "It's just… really, Sherlock? _Glamping_? In a _yurt_?"

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><p>Maurice Stonebridge had appeared at Baker Street on a gloomy, October morning. Sherlock had only just managed enough interest in the day to shower and dress when Mrs. Hudson led the desperate university student into Sherlock's lounge. He'd scowled uninvitingly at both of them while he continued to blot at his wet hair with a towel, but his landlady had merely moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on.<p>

Deciding someone's nattering might be better than his planned morning of research, Sherlock had thrown himself into his chair and waved an imperious hand at the young man, directing him towards John's old chair. As soon as the tea had appeared, he'd politely asked the boy to speak. Or at least somewhat politely. Or at least he'd _asked_.

What had come out was story of four, foolish twenty-somethings eager to take in the sights of the Outer Hebrides; namely, the western-most Isles of Lewis and Harris. Privileged students of the Cambridge set, they'd decided that only way to experience the true wilds of Scotland was to try their hand at that most time-honored (meaning new and stupid) tradition of glamourous camping, or 'glamping'.

Armed with ingenuity (read: more foolishness), they'd set out. They'd only brought with them the necessities, as well as several thousand pounds' worth of frivolous décor and ninety quid bedrolls that _might_ offer padding to a falling leaf and little else.

Stonebridge had explained to an increasingly impatient consulting detective that he and his three friends spent the first three days of their holiday exploring the uninhabited islands that dotted the shores of Lewis, only retiring to their rented broch late each night for—Sherlock could only assume—meals of organic highland cow pies, micro-brewed IPA beers, and exotic fruit compotes. He imagined the pretentious travelers disaffectedly singing a few verses of Lumineers songs before bed.

And then, on the morning of the fourth day, Stonebridge woke to find that Posy Whitehall, Brooks Flannery, and Theo Blackburn had disappeared in the night with their clothes, leaving little trace behind. Not even their £90 bedrolls remained.

Mrs. Hudson had smacked the back of Sherlock's head when he'd lamented aloud that the lost, expensive bedding was the greatest pity of the disappearance of Stonebridge's friends.

The islands constabulary had issued an all-points bulletin and sought the missing students, but they'd ultimately called off the search when four weeks passed and their efforts yielded no results. They then turned suspicious eyes on Stonebridge. Despite an utter dearth of evidence, the young man became their prime suspect. Insisting on his innocence, Stonebridge wanted Sherlock to prove it.

Not enthusiastic, per se, Sherlock had packed up a week's supply of warm clothes (he'd made sure to inform the younger man of just what he thought about making camp at the height of autumn) and had set off for the Scottish Isles. Stonebridge expressed a wish to come with him, but Sherlock had sniffed and suggested that the boy might consider it in his best interests to return to Cambridge, where term was just beginning. As a parting shot, he'd also suggested that Stonebridge confront his father about his compulsive gambling habit, but that had honestly been more for Sherlock's entertainment than any need to dissuade company.

The broch the students had let for their holiday was now occupied by another party, so Sherlock had grudgingly allowed the boutique camping agent to book him in a nearby lodging. When he'd pulled up in front of the large, cream yurt, Sherlock's first instinct had been to turn around and fly back to London. Upon entering the structure and taking in the plush bed, the tasteful artwork, and the (possibly Yeti) fur rug in front of a wood-burning stove, however, he'd decided it would actually suit him rather well.

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><p>Despite the mawkishness that plagued him whenever he looked at Molly Hooper in recent weeks, and an admitted happiness in having her there now, Sherlock did admit that he should have withheld his candor when his mother had called him while he made his way to Heathrow the next morning. She'd expressed interest in his attending the theatre with her—<em>Billy Elliott,<em> dear science—and Sherlock had feigned regret over his impending trip.

He should have thought long and hard about the piqued interest in Mummy's voice when she'd casually asked him if he was dragging John along with him. Especially when said interest became downright avid as soon as he'd explained John's decision to remain behind with his wife and daughter. She'd slyly suggested that he shouldn't go it alone, and then huffed and puffed when he snippily told her that he'd be fine on his own, thank you very much. Ultimately, though, she'd stood down. Far, far too easily, as it turned out.

It was like he'd never encountered her calculating ways before.

The fruit of that calculation was currently looking around with a curled lip at the sheepskin rug and expensive accoutrements. The very things that Sherlock had relished on arrival did not impress her.

"People actually consider this camping?" she asked, adjusting the straps on her rucksack.

Sherlock bristled. "Yes." He didn't mean for his tone to sound quite so defensive. But still, "What else _would_ it be?"

Her eyes moved pointedly around the yurt's plush interior. "Staying in a hotel. A fancy hotel."

Desperately, he wondered if he could keep her from going into the partitioned water closet, where the giant copper tub and expensive toiletries awaited use. Perhaps he could tell her that she had to bathe in the brackish water of the loch. _That's not such a bad idea,_ chimed in his libido, as the kitchen area's window overlooked the small, nearby beach. He stored that idea temporarily. He had an argument to win and his pride to maintain.

"Hotels aren't self-catering," he crowed triumphantly. He felt pleased with his irrefutable point.

"Oh ho!" Her eyes actually twinkled with mirth, and it was annoying and distracting and made his heartbeat hitch a little. "Are you going to have a fry-up at the wood-burning hob?"

He'd planned to go to a nearby bothy for any meals, but pride had him sneering, "Maybe I was. They provided me a basket of food for just that purpose at check-in."

"Food delivery, eh? Just like the Mongolian nomads of yore," Molly sing-songed.

"We're in Scotland," he hissed, eyes narrowed. "Enthusiasts of carbon-neutral camping have merely borrowed the concept."

She only grinned in reply.

With a frustrated growl, he moved to her, stepping into her space and trying to look stern. But the problem with Molly being aware of his regard for her was her utter lack of intimidation at his feigned superiority. She just blinked up at him, doe-eyed and still smiling. She even swayed towards him a little to the delight of his boyish hormones, her breasts brushing lightly against his stomach.

He could do one of two things: stick his nose in the air and maintain the status quo, or he could kiss that smile right off of her mouth. Utilizing a stony silence, he could reinforce that Sherlock Holmes was most certainly not a _glamper. _Or he could prove her judging ways wrong by showing her the benefits of having a real bed and not, say, a £90 bedroll.

His struggle was real, but a small gurgle from Molly's stomach decided it for him. Temporarily. Mummy may have been heavy-handed, but he was quickly making peace with the situation, and anticipating it.

"I'm going to make a Cullen skink for supper," he announced decidedly. _Take that, Hooper, with your doubting ways and pretty eyes_. "Feel free to freshen up in the loch."

"Loch?" she asked.

It was Sherlock's turn to smile evilly. "Loch Ceann Hulabhaig. Nature's bathtub. It'll be a bit nippy. Do be sure to be back before the sky opens up. I'd hate for you to get caught out in the storm."

Molly looked at the door, looked at Sherlock, and then back to the door. "Or," she drawled, "I could freshen up in the bathroom right here in the yurt." And she swiveled to face the carved wood partition that disguised a toilet and said copper tub.

Damn it.

"Or you could do that," he sniffed in uncaring agreement. "Enjoy the unreliable pipes. Such remote camping sites aren't friends to frequent bathers."

"Most camping sites don't even have plumbing, so I'm sure this'll be downright luxurious," Molly said breezily. "I can't wait to see how the other half 'camps'." And then, darting up to peck him on the cheek, she moved away.

Sherlock fought the impulse to stick his tongue out at her retreating back and the quotation marks he didn't think he was imagining around her parting shot (also, he wondered if cheek kisses could be sarcastic, because that buss of hers was suspect). Instead, he heaved an aggrieved sigh and moved to the fridge, where he'd stored his basket of vegetables, milk, fish, and bread. He'd never actually made a Cullen skink before, but it couldn't be too difficult.

He even worked heroically not to look through the slivers of the wood partition, though he could see Molly moving around. Pale strips of skin caught the corner of his eye as she disrobed and muttered at the creaking plumbing when she turned on the tub faucet.

Later, Sherlock would wish that he'd had the prescience to know that he and Molly would be married in less than forty-eight hours. Instead of the least edible Cullen skink in the history of Cullen skinks, he could have baked a wedding cake.

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><p><strong>...<strong>

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><p><strong>AN: **Hi everyone! Thanks for taking the time to read this! I can promise that, from start to finish, the story will be ridiculous. I hope you like it.

Chapter Two: "Ain't Misbehavin'" will be up next week!


	2. Chapter Two: Ain't Misbehavin'

**Chapter Two: Ain't Misbehavin'**

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><p>"I see here that a broch is an Iron Age dwelling native to Scotland," Molly said conversationally as they wove around on a meandering road the next morning. She squinted a little and titled her mobile away from a glare so she could continue reading.<p>

Ignoring the history lesson, Sherlock scowled at the damp collecting on the car's windows. "You have data reception out here?"

"Mmhmm." If she'd noticed the jealousy practically steaming off of her driver, she made no mention. "Apparently, brochs're great feats of drywall architecture. Archaeologists still debate the purpose of their original use, though the word _broch_ springs from _brough_, which means fort."

"Archaeologists rarely agree on anything. How do you have data? We have the same mobile carrier." Was there no justice in the world?

She looked up thoughtfully. "Make you wonder what the word _Edin_ means, doesn't it? As in Edinburgh?"

"'Burgh' and 'Brough' are not one in the same, Molly."

She didn't respond right away, tongue stuck out in concentration as she typed on the mobile's tiny, digital keyboard, and then another moment passed as she scanned her screen. "They are, actually. According to my lover, Google, _brough_ is low-Scottish, _burgh_ or _burh_ are Middle English, but they have the same meaning."

"You have 4G LTE?" he demanded, aghast by the speed with which she'd been able discard his etymology know-how.

"Edin, meanwhile, is possibly an exclusively Scottish word, derivative of _Eidyn, _which is a toponym—"

"That's great," Sherlock interrupted. "Give me your mobile."

Molly squawked when he reached over to yank the phone from her, but she managed to evade his pincer-like hand, flattening herself against the passenger door. "No!"

"Don't be ridiculous. Just give it to me for a moment."

"Why?"

He stretched is arm further, still trying to reach it. "I just want to check my email."

"Not while you're driving, you clot!" She swatted at him.

"Fine!" Sherlock straightened slammed on the breaks, letting the engine stall out.

Unfastening his seat belt, he leaned over again, fingers grasping for the phone. Molly jerked around, turning from him and shielding the prize with her body. He tried worming his hand under her vice-like arm, making her jump as his fingers tickled her side. Which inspired him to experimentally repeat his actions, hoping to gain some ground in getting that damn, desired mobile off of her.

They tussled a bit longer (neither realizing that they were laughing), and it was only when someone knocked on the windscreen that Sherlock realized he'd nearly moved all the way across the car's center console. One knee was up by the gear shift, and his chest was flush to Molly's back, his arms around her, hands buried against her midriff. He'd been taking a two-tiered approach of tickling her into submission while he continued his attempts to seize the phone from her clutches.

A man in a porkpie hat squinted in at them, befuddled and either annoyed or merely old (Sherlock frankly couldn't tell which, thanks to his massively wrinkled face).

Blowing her hair out of her eyes, Molly cleared her throat and used the hand crank to roll down her window. "What seems to be the problem, Mister…?" she asked.

"MacTavish," the man supplied. It was the only thing Sherlock managed to translate. The interrupter set off in a thick, rolling brogue. Sherlock caught something about coos and rudes and a plethora of rolled r's. Beyond that, he assumed the man was angry about something. Or just old. It really _was_ difficult to tell.

Molly seemed to follow a little more easily, for she nodded sympathetically. "I understand. And it's a beautiful head of cattle you have. If you'd be so kind as to move them aside, my companion and I will be on our way." She smiled winningly. "We're unused to free-range livestock."

Sherlock finally noticed the giant herd of fluffy highland cattle that had swarmed and surrounded the car during his wrestling match with Molly. He blinked, astounded that he'd neither heard nor felt their approach (there had to have been a minor earthquake from plodding hooves, and they had rather sonorous moos).

MacTavish nodded and said a few more r words and something about _sasunnachs_.

Though Sherlock only understood and spoke broken Gàidhlig, he recognized the word. The man had called them Saxons.

"I have very few Germanic roots in my ancestry," he informed the farmer haughtily. Who looked wholly unimpressed (old) by the rejoinder.

"They call anyone not from around here 'sasunnach'," Molly explained quietly, turning her head to look at Sherlock.

His nose brushed her cheekbone and his gaze narrowed, reminded once of their physical proximity at the moment.

This had to stop.

He had no need to know how pleasantly _clean_ she smelled or how soft her jumper was (or how soft _she _was). Those were extraneous details that he'd just have to delete later, lest he embarrass himself with sentimental thoughts.

"Ah," he coughed. He set to peeling himself off of Molly, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the car as he contorted himself back into his seat. He frowned, baffled, wondering how he'd managed to move across without injuring himself in the first place.

While he and Molly straightened their clothes, both trying and failing to act casual about it (_like teenagers_, he thought to himself, _caught out while getting off_). MacTavish had turned away to grumble instructions to a huge dog of indeterminate breed. It eagerly began running, circling and barking at the cows, using the car's bonnet as a convenient springboard a few times.

"Did you get damage protection?" Molly asked, finger combing her hair back into sorts as the car rocked a little with the force of the dog's jump. "I think that thing might be part draft horse, part wolf."

Sherlock's lip curled derisively. "The hire agency will probably insist that coverage doesn't include monster claws."

Finally, the road ahead of the car cleared of the russet animals, though he wondered if he'd still hear cattle lowing even in his sleep. Giving a jaunty salute to the farmer, who only stared back them, unmoved. Sherlock restarted the Peugeot and they puttered away from the good man and his cows.

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><p>When Molly offered to come with him that morning, he'd shoved aside his instinct to agree. She'd help, yes, but she'd also be <em>distracting. <em>He'd tried to dissuade her with temptations of exotic sightseeing and sweeping vistas.

She'd only arched an eyebrow and peered out of the kitchen area's window.

"Oh, look. A rock in the loch. And another. And another. And an—"

"Molly," he'd warned.

She'd only blinked innocently at him.

With a sigh, he went to the door and held it open, waving her through impatiently when she'd insisted on grabbing her coat first.

_Really_, he'd thought to himself as he pulled his Belstaff's collar tightly closed, _it isn't _that_ cold_.

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><p>The broch that Maurice Stonebridge and his fellow students had made their holiday home certainly looked bucolic. It's circular shape seamlessly transitioned into a grassy hill, and its inner rooms likely behaved similarly. The in-ground design would keep the broch warm in colder months, and cooler in the summer. Nothing outside relieved the structure of its grey, dour look, though Sherlock did see remnants of an outdoor fire and chair marks in the dirt.<p>

He felt an unjustified level of smugness as they climbed out of the car. Surely, Molly would not find scathing words about privileged camping if the inside of the drab rock pile looked anything like its exterior.

For the time being, "Cozy," was her only, dry comment while she watched Sherlock pick the lock. She frowned, realizing what he was doing. "You're breaking in. Are you telling me we're not the only dolts 'making holiday' in off-peak season?"

Sherlock grunted, pushing his shoulder against the door for leverage as his pick set quailed under the heavy iron lock. Finally, though, he heard the bolt fall back.

"Why would I stay in a yurt if I had the choice? I believe the owner resides here during the autumn and winter months," he explained, putting away his picks.

"Why." She didn't even bother pose it as a question.

He shot her a look. "As much as you denigrate '_glamping'_, you, yourself, pointed out that brochs have a rich heritage in the Hebrides."

It was shame that the same moment he snippily informed Molly of her disservice to the broch lifestyle, he also pushed the heavy, wooden door open and flicked on a switch just inside.

Together, they stared inside at the small foyer and great room beyond it.

Molly slowly turned back to Sherlock with one, sardonic brow quirked. He forcibly stopped his hand mid-reach, just short of his thumb arriving at that taunting eyebrow to prod at it until it lowered once more. Instead, he exhaled huffily through his nose and waved her into the house. Nearly prancing, she stepped into the ornate rooms beyond.

The stonework that comprised the outside of the broch was still visible in patches around the foyer and into the living area. Sherlock imagined some interior decorator had described it as 'rustic'. It was the only thing that passed as such in there.

Gaslights sconces circled the main living area, reflecting off gold threads of the Aubusson area rugs scattered throughout. The only place without a filigree sconce, in fact, was the seven-foot span of wall that had been replaced with a large, picture window. It overlooked a sloping ridge leading down to the shoreline.

A mounted stag's head loomed over a large fireplace, its glassy eyes observing the general splendor of fur throws on overstuffed settees, designer lamps, and crystal decanters.

"Rich history, indeed," Molly murmured. She idly picked up a decorative pewter ball from a sideboard, rolling it in her hands while she looked around. And then her eyes widened and she set the ball back down with a _thunk_. Sherlock watched, curious, as she approached a heavy oak desk and pulled out her mobile, thumbing up the camera. "If I put an Instagram filter on it, this iMac's antique provenance will really pop."

He didn't deign to respond.

When she'd finished snickering, literally trying to pat herself on the back, she finally sobered a bit. "So what are we looking for? Do you think your client 'Cask-of-Amantillado'd' his friends in the broch walls?"

"Oh, decided to ask, have you?" he sniffed. "And did you just use a Poe story title as a verb?"

"Huh. I'd have thought you'd delete something so crass as a short story."

"I do enjoy _some _fiction on occasion," he sniffed. He decided not to mention his mother reading all of the stories to him as a child. He was still put out by her heavy-handed matchmaking.

Just to be contrary, he said, "As for our missing Uni students, I'd prefer if they'd been 'Tell-Tale-Hearted'."

"Not enough floorboards here, though. Just flagstone. Flagstone with radiant floor heat, if I'm not mistaken. The putrefaction would be intolerable," she reasoned.

"Not if he buried them in the larder. I imagine that it's unheated. And it's been a month since they disappeared. Plenty of time for the smell of decay to diminish."

Molly wandered over to the fireplace, looking pointedly at the flue. "What about 'Rue Morgued'? Maybe an orangutan did it and stuffed the bodies up the chimney."

It surprised a small snort from Sherlock and he registered a burst of enjoyment. He was having fun. It was needless waste of time: coming up with outlandish, improbable solutions to his case. But Molly looked just as happy, and he felt a warm pressure settling in the top of his chest as they smirked at each other.

Finally, though, he had to look away, embarrassed. Crouching down, he felt the floor. Molly was right: heated flagstone. Looking up, he examined the upper floor, housing what could only be bedrooms.

"Bedrolls."

"I rarely eat sushi," Molly said.

Sherlock's lips quirked, but he steered the conversation back to his actual point. "I had Stonebridge give me an itemized list of his companions' belongings that disappeared with them. It was all of their clothing luggage and their bedrolls."

"And they left in the middle of the night?"

He _hmm_ed, confirming. "But the bedrolls."

"What about them?" Molly prompted.

"Does this place strike you as the sort not to have bedrooms?"

She snorted. "Oh, yes. People spend their social time here in opulence before retiring to a medieval shared room with soggy rushes and nothing else."

"Exactly. So why did my client and his friends buy ninety pound bedrolls from a boutique camping site?"

Molly looked at him, aghast. "_Ninety_ quid? That's highway robbery!"

"I never said they were _smart_ university students. In fact, I'd say my entire reason for being here proves that they are the exact opposite of smart."

"I wonder what it'd be like to _elect _to sleep on a bedroll instead of in a real bed. And those disappeared, too? That's a shame. Stonebridge could have sold them to get a little money back after his failed holiday." She bit her lip. "And this was in late September? Not exactly keen weather for camping out under the stars."

Sherlock spared a moment to be glad he wasn't the only one who was offended by the wasteful purchase and subsequent loss of the bedrolls. It now nagged at him, though. Why the hell _had _Stonebridge, Whitehall, Flannery, and Blackburn purchased them? Stonebridge had mentioned that they'd let the broch several months before their trip, so it wasn't because they'd not known where they'd be staying.

Pulling out his mobile, Sherlock tried to call Stonebridge while he strode up the shadowed staircase, wanting to verify that this broch wasn't just a show lounge and otherwise-stable. At a glance, though, the rooms beyond were just as extravagantly appointed as the lounge, and furnished with enormous beds.

Sherlock's ornery phone made a sputtering crackling noise and the obnoxious dropped signal alert blared in his ear.

He scowled, looking down to see Molly wandering into the kitchen. He could either pickpocket her for her mobile and face her wrath, or he could ask nicely to borrow it.

He considered it for a moment. Pickpocketing it was.

Her wrath was formidable and… invigorating.

Quietly, he moved back to the ground floor and skirted the heavy furniture, eying the stag trophy in case it tried to tattle on him. The animal maintained a stony and taciturn indifference. Sherlock saluted it before darting up to Molly on tiptoe. She stood at a diary hanging on the wall, reading the blocks of reservations highlighted in hot pink marker.

"Don't even think about it," she said conversationally as he stretched his hand out.

Sherlock wilted. "You don't even know what I was going to do."

"I deduce," she turned and rumbled in a horrible imitation of him before resuming her normal voice, "that you were going for my mobile. You had yours to your ear, but you never spoke, and you quickly pulled the phone away and started stabbing at buttons before any voicemail would have kicked in. The no-signal alert is shrill and repetitive. You were trying to disconnect, but weren't able to."

"Maybe I was headed towards the toilet," he suggested feebly.

"Loo's in the opposite direction, and it'd be weird to break and enter and then avail yourself of it. Also, you've been coveting my mobile for the last hour."

Sherlock sniffed. "Coveting is such a strong word. If I'm struck by the disdainful fact that I'm here in a professional capacity and my one means of communication has failed while yours continues to work perfectly, well, you can hardly fault me."

"I can when you keep trying to get your slimy paws on it without permission." Molly moved to the fridge, pulling it open to study its contents. She glared. "The entire unit is stocked with Bachelor's brand food. It's impossible to take anything but the natives seriously here, I swear."

"My hands aren't slimy," Sherlock defended. "Molly, may I _please_ borrow your phone?"

She swiveled to face him, smiling beatifically. "Of course." She pulled the mobile out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Knock yourself out. Except don't really, because I don't think I can carry you out of here and I'd rather not linger much longer."

Sherlock shot her an unimpressed look as he dialed Stonebridge.

And of course, the call went to voicemail.

Once the recording beep sounded, Sherlock barked, "Mr. Stonebridge, I have some questions for you. Call me back."

Molly darted forward in a mad rush before he could disconnect. and called loudly to the mobile, "This is Sherlock Holmes, by the way. Have a nice day."

"He'd know _that,_" he said peevishly after he'd ended the call. "And I don't give a damn about the quality of his day.

"Why would he know it's you? He's met you once. It'll be a shame if he reports you to the Better Business Bureau for poor manners."

"I'm his only hope for proving that he didn't kill his friends or help them disappear." His tone was haughty. "I somehow doubt he'll be overly concerned with _manners_."

Molly shook her head pityingly. "You say that now, but the next thing you know, he'll invite you to dinner. You'll say, 'No thanks, I'm not hungry,' and he'll drop the deadbolt in place and say, 'Oh, but _I _am.' Politeness saves lives and internal organs, Sherlock."

"I'd like to see him try," Sherlock sneered.

Molly just shrugged, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "Just warning you. If he produces a nice Chianti, run. Run and don't look back."

Sherlock shook his head, though he secretly wondered how Molly knew so much about the psychological and behavioral profiles of modern cannibals.

"I'm going to take a closer look at the bedrooms. If you're quite finished cataloguing the ways I might insight a man's hunger for human flesh, you're welcome to come, too."

"I'm sure they'll be perfectly rustic," she said sweetly, making for the staircase and snagging her mobile from his hand on her way by.

He could only hope that she wouldn't notice the crystal chandeliers hanging above each bed.

* * *

><p>Dejected, they left the broch, no closer to an answer. Too much time had passed between the students' holiday and Sherlock's investigation. He'd moved on to the locals to suss out a better angle on inquiry.<p>

Stonebridge never called Sherlock (or rather, Molly) back.

"It's like he doesn't really care that I'm out here trying to save his posh derriere," he groused as they walked back into to the yurt after a fruitless afternoon speaking with shopkeepers and a few police constables in Stornoway.

"Or he's trying to keep his head above water. New term, no friends, potential murder charges. I know it really affected with me when I killed a man," Molly mused, sinking down onto the small settee in front of the wood-burning stove.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he lowered himself down beside her. His weight pushed the cushions down, and she rolled in unintentionally until her side was pressed to his.

She stilled for a moment, as if wondering if she should grab the settee's laughable excuse for an armrest and haul herself away. But she didn't. Instead, she sighed forlornly and shook her head. "Poor Esteban."

Very well. He could be just as unaffected as she. "You didn't kill a man called _Esteban_."

Trying to look worldly and haunted, she gave him a small, sad smile. "You're right. He was called Steven. But we were in Spain, so it seems a fitting tribute to him. I remember how he'd follow me around, softly singing, '_Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no_–mmmff'_"_

Sherlock had placed a hand over her mouth. She pulled at his fingers futilely for a moment before subsiding, though her eyes twinkled over his thumb, and her torso shook with tiny, muffled laughs. He could feel their vibrations against his arm.

He was flustered and almost laughing, too. He had to be adult about it.

"Molly," he murmured, sobering. "Are you quite done?" But he all too quickly realized—both from Molly's shiver and the sensation of his bottom lip glancing off of the skin of her earlobe—that he'd gotten rather close to her to make his demands. His voice was pitched low and he'd asked her rather, well, _silkily_.

Molly's eyes darted around. To the thumb of the hand covering her mouth. To something over his shoulder. To his lips. Back to the thumb. It was a circuit and he followed it with an interest that he couldn't pretend was detached.

He could feel each point where they touched, hand to face, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Her fingers flexed and released nervously in her lap, close enough to his leg that he could just feel them.

Cataloguing it all, he wondered how much longer he had before Molly lost her patience and amusement at his hand covering her mouth. If he ever tried anything like it in a non-joking way, she would likely bite his hand with enough force to break skin and then refuse to administer First Aid.

When she nodded a little, he willed his tense muscles to relax and pulled his hand away, feeling the cool air hit a damp patch on his palm in the shape of her lips.

He told his body that it should straighten away from where he was still pressed to her. He should get up and go call Stonebridge again. Or make another poisonous soup. Anything, really. Apparently, though, nothing worked right today, for he stayed right he was, and Molly appeared to be of a like compulsion.

They stared at each other, faces now only inches apart after she'd turned in more to look up at him, bewildered, eyes dark. Her breath fluttered the collar of his shirt while he could see her hair move a little with his careful exhalations.

She leaned just a little forward and his breath stuttered. But he didn't draw away. In fact, he might have leaned towards her in turn. It was an interesting experiment in polarity, he justified to himself.

She moved her hands, those flexing fingers grabbing the open flaps of his blazer. With a huff, she shook her head and leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and he could only wait.

Just before her lips brushed his, though, a horrible cry came from outside the yurt's felt walls. Jerking apart, they whirled around, trying to identify the direction of the shouting. Rushing to the window, Molly looked around wildly, and then let out a gasp.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded, hurrying over to her. She only turned and ran out of the yurt door. Glancing outside, Sherlock discovered why.

Farmer MacTavish lay under the bulk of one of his cows, her huge head on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Feebly, he tried to move from under its mass, with but he barely budged.

Running out the door, Sherlock caught up with Molly halfway between the yurt and MacTavish.

"Mr. MacTavish, we're here to help you!" she cried.

MacTavish lifted his head. Instead of looking on them as if they were his personal saviors arrived to rescue him from Death by Cow, he started waving them away. He yelled at them to 'nooze out' and something about his coos, but Molly only shook her head.

"Don't struggle! We'll save you!"

MacTavish began cussing in the inventive stream of profanities distinctive of the Scots. Tapping firmly on the cow's front leg, he shouted something else, and the cow lumbered to her feet, shaking her fluffy head and mooing in distress. She took one look at the new arrivals and went running away in an ungainly gait.

Standing too, MacTavish pointed accusingly at Sherlock and Molly, remonstrating with them over 'upseytin' me coo' when she was purportedly just 'shooin' some affeyction'.

He stormed off, calling after "Roberta the Bruce", apologizing to her with all of his heart.

When Roberta the Bruce's lowing and MacTavish's pleading faded over the hillside, Molly and Sherlock could only stare at each other, not entirely sure what had just happened.

And then they seemed to recall what had almost happened right before their timely interruption. Clearing their throats, they let their gazes slide away from each other. Sherlock scratched his neck and kicked at a clump of grass that the cow had kicked up in her hurry to get away.

Molly rubbed her arms and looked out at the water, frowning. "It looks like a storm is coming."

Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat. "The bookshop owner we spoke to in Stornoway said this one will make last night's storm look like a wafting breeze with a slight trickle of rain."

"Ah," Molly said, not really listening to him.

They stood there for another minute before she shook herself out of her embarrassed stupor. Smiling brightly—her fakest, I'm Happy and Unbothered smile—she said, "Pub, then?"

Sherlock tamped down a small flicker of disappointment that she didn't slink over to him (as much as a person wearing a giant wooly jumper, two shirts, jeans, Under Armor, and thick boots _could_ slink) and suggest that they pick up where they'd left off.

But instead of voicing his displeasure, he only nodded curtly and turned to retrieve his coat and car keys.

He really hated cows.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **In his long career as a farmer, Mr. MacTavish has named all of his herd after various Scottish monarchs or would-be-monarchs. Which hasn't been easy. He's had approximately forty-eight Bonny Prince Charlies and sixty head of Mary, Queens of Scots. A lot of James occurrences, too.

Thank you so much to everyone who's followed, subscribed, favorited, kudos'd, and reviewed the story so far. I truly appreciate the interest!

Thanks to **dietplainlite** for the beta and suggestions.

Next week, we move into territory that's a tad more salacious and a tad more getting-to-the-main-point-of-this-story *old timey radio announcer voice* Stay tuned to learn the fate of our champion and her dashing-but-cranky love interest in "The Accidental Bridegroom - Chapter Three: Le Petit Mortification"!


	3. Chapter Three: Le Petit Mortification

**Chapter Three: Le Petit Mortification**

* * *

><p>The functional design of a yurt did not lend itself to blackout curtains. As such, the morning light woke Sherlock rather rudely when it filtered inside his temporary home the next morning. Apparently, overcast skies meant very little to a structure made primarily of felt and wood.<p>

Reflecting back on the proceedings of that day, Sherlock would later laugh at his naiveté. If only that had been the only irksome thing to happen to him.

In fact, Sherlock's rude awakening only became more so when he realized just what a compromising position he'd worked himself into over the course of a few short hours.

* * *

><p>They'd lain on their sides in the bed, bickering over whether or not they should relocate to Sherlock's hire car. He insisted that the yurt was sound. Molly insisted that crushed bodies were not attractive things.<p>

"I'd know," she had informed him waspishly, whispering even though they had no neighbors to bother. "If the immediate trauma doesn't kill us, the crush syndrome will. Ever seen the kidneys of a crush syndrome victim, Sherlock? Not pretty. Not pretty at all."

He'd glared at her shadowed form. They were huddled under the feather duvet, though they were hardly cold, thanks to the thick bedding, the wood-burning stove, and each other's proximity.

"Well, our kidney's are going to be pristine," he shot back, "because we aren't going to be crushed. Quit being so melodramatic, Molly."

It was a rare occasion for Sherlock not to be the reactionary one, and he secretly relished it. Until the yurt's wooden ribs groaned menacingly and Molly's foot darted forward, pinching his calf with her distressingly strong toes. He yelped, more in surprise than actual pain.

"If I die in a busted yurt, Sherlock, I swear I'll…."

"Swear you'll what?" he challenged, scooting closer to her in hopes that she would see the defiant gleam in his eyes. Also, so he could press his chest to hers, but that was irrelevant.

She'd drawn in a sharp breath when he made contact, but it didn't distract her for long. "I'll use my last breaths to compose an obituary for you. I'll send it to the _Guardian_, identifying you as a teenybopper."

"Go ahead. I'll be beyond caring."

"His twin loves were skinny jeans and One Direction," she intoned mournfully.

Sherlock scoffed. "I have no preference about directions. North is no more superior to south, and so on. That's not even a good insult. Try harder."

Molly sighed. "Never mind. But I do think you'll be singing a different tune when a bunch of wood beams land on us."

"And what tune is that?"

Pitching her voice low, she sang a dirge. "_Ouch. This really hurts, Molly. I can feel my long bones and muscles rupturing. If only I'd listened to your sage warnings and gone to sleep in the Peugeot._"

Rolling his eyes, he bumped one of her calves with his knee. "If I believed in an afterlife, I'd tell you to gloat to me then. Since I don't, however, I'll just suggest you feel satisfaction over your assumed correctness now."

"Oh, believe me, I do," she sniffed.

The yurt had chosen that moment to creak overhead, and in a flurry of movement, Molly threw herself onto Sherlock, shielding him with her body. Stunned, he lay there, cataloging _sensations: _the pull of her fingers in his hair where they'd gotten tangled when she'd wrapped her arms around this head, the smell the wool detergent on her jumper where his nose was pressed to her shoulder, and each point of contact with the weight of her body on top of his. The feeling of her knees, pressing into the mattress and against his hips almost made him shiver.

When a pile of wood and stiff fabric failed to crash down on them, Molly had cleared her throat awkwardly and moved away again, breaking all contact with him, to his great regret. But he also couldn't contain the feeling of warmth that moved through him as he finally registered what she'd just done. It had nothing to do with the initial shock of lust.

She was clearly mortified by the entire thing, so he only muttered a low, "Thanks for that," and knew her squeak of acknowledgment was all he'd hear of it.

By the time they'd regained their composure, Sherlock realized that the wind had abated, the rain slowing to a drizzle. He listened to the drops of water tapping on the yurt roof, thinking about his champion, Molly Hooper.

When he glanced over at her again, squinting through the dark, he realized that she'd fallen asleep.

That, or she was doing a rather good job pretending. Truthfully, Sherlock could not tell which.

* * *

><p>Sharing a bed with Molly was nothing new. When Sherlock started using her flat as a bolthole, he'd quickly discovered that her mattress was far too comfortable to miss when deep thinking or sleep were necessary. To avoid any awkward encounters, he'd initially tried to convince her that she'd be much happier elsewhere. After all, he needed the larger bed to accommodate his longer frame. No use recrowding it with a second person.<p>

Unfortunately (or far, far too fortunately, depending on Sherlock's sentiment and libido's wakefulness at any given moment), she'd only raised an eyebrow and suggested that the small fire escape outside of her flat might better accommodate him. Not keen to take her up on her offer, he'd decided he could ignore his baser urges and Molly would not be in his way on her side of the bed.

For the most part, he'd been right, save for a few, isolated incidents. A cold shower or two had remedied those, though, and Molly had never been any the wiser.

Their first night on the Isle of Lewis had not been difficult because they were both too tired to speak, let alone _notice_ each other. They'd trudged in from their evening at the bothy and had hardly managed to get ready for bed before collapsing onto the bed and sleeping heavily until daybreak.

Last night and this morning were different. Sherlock had known it as he'd lain beneath the covers and had his argument with Molly about the durability of their yurt, and he most certainly recognized it now. It was painfully obvious.

Somewhere between his finally drifting off in the post-storm hours and waking in the rude, bright morning, Sherlock had moved over in the large bed. He'd traversed the considerable amount of space between his body and Molly's, stopping only when he'd reached her.

If he could have slept ramrod straight with just the length of his side pressed to hers, it wouldn't have mattered. He might have even found a way to accuse her of invading _his_ space.

But no. It would be much, much harder to convince her that any of this was her doing when he'd wrapped himself around her so insistently. He'd moved off of his pillow, scooted down the mattress, and taken advantage of her splayed arms. The side of her soft breast rested against his temple where he'd pressed his face into her ribs just below her underarm.

That was bad enough, of course. Even worse, however, was the arm he'd thrown around her, his hand worming its way up inside her jumper, fingers curled over her ribs to hold her tightly to him. But, of course, not so tightly that his thumb didn't have free range to strum the nipple on her other breast, over and over.

Worst of all—and Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever encountered _anything_ worse than this—was the heavy erection he rhythmically worked against Molly's thigh, his leg thrown across hers. He could feel the damp, growing patch of pre-ejaculate on his pajama bottoms, rubbing against the sensitive head of his cock in concert with her warm thigh beneath him. The tightening in his lower back and his balls told him that he'd somehow managed to wake just as he'd reached the very cusp of an intense orgasm and a low, hedonistic groan alerted him to the fact that he was moaning in time with the rocking of his hips

Though shock has the ability to slow down one's perception of time, all of these realizations only took seconds in succession.

Sherlock had, on several occasions, experienced the effects of adrenaline in moments of fear or emergency. Perhaps someday he would find value in his definitive proof that adrenaline was not inhibited by near-to-bursting sexual arousal. But all he knew in that waking moment was that he'd never moved as quickly as he did in his scramble to get away from Molly.

He nearly backed all of the way off of the bed, but he caught himself before he landed in heap on the chilly wood flooring. Struggling to pull in a breath, he finally looked at her face, only for his heart to stutter at what he found.

She was awake.

She stared back at him, her cheeks flushed, and her chest rising and falling rapidly. The moment their eyes met, she licked her lips, and he watched her hands fist the bed sheets at her waist, her knuckles white. She'd kicked off her blankets at some point, and he could see her thighs rubbing together ever so slightly, as if to relieve pressure between them.

She was awake and… and _aroused_. Though his grasp of social cues had its limits, Sherlock felt no doubt about it.

His cock gave an excited twitch, as if trying to pull him back over to her, onto her, but however Molly felt about the matter, he couldn't ignore his troglodyte behavior. Whirling so his back was to her, so she couldn't see just how excited he truly was (as if she hadn't already realized, what with his sleeping body doing its best to take her), Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"Forgive me," he said hoarsely, his voice deep with disuse and arousal. "Please."

Silence filled the space between them for several moments before she whispered, "Don't apologize. I'd only just woken up, too. You didn't know."

Though her dismissal left him feeling slightly better, Sherlock shoved off of the mattress, eager to end this whole, awkward interval. He muttered an excuse and darted over to the toilet area, yanking off his shirt as he moved and shoving his pajama pants down as soon as he'd cleared the privacy screen.

He didn't bother to turn on the rickety shower until he'd leapt into the tub, and he couldn't stop a small noise of surprise from escaping when the frigid water hit his fevered skin.

Despite the tidal wave of humiliation and distress, his erection didn't flag at all. He stared down the length of his body, glaring. His cock showed no reaction to the cold water, even after a minute-and-a-half standing under the spray. His mind wouldn't let it abate, not with all of its new source material.

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock looked up, afraid he'd see Molly standing there, taken aback by his continued excitement. But the coast was clear. And then he made the mistake of glancing between the panels of the privacy screen. He could just see her where she still lay on the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes.

One arm thrown over her eyes and the other… the other _wasn't_.

His view was limited and she'd pulled the duvet back over her. He couldn't be sure. But, oh, he hoped he was right.

Because if he was right, the hand belonging to that other arm was currently occupying itself between her legs. What little he could see of her face beneath her arm was flushed, and her lips looked damp and almost plump as she pulled in and let out heavy breaths.

Not even realizing he'd done it, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his thick length until he felt it twitch against his palm, as if reminding him of his perfidy. He looked away quickly, trying to give her at least what remaining of her privacy.

Here he was, spying on Molly and wanking in the shower at the same time. The juvenile quality of his day just kept regressing more and more.

It only took a handful—_ha_—of firm strokes up and down his length (and the now-persistent memory of Molly's _maybe very possibly _touching herself) for him to orgasm. He managed to choke back a shout as his come spilled out over his hand, spattering onto the tub floor and sliding down the drain.

Sherlock's bones tried to liquefy from the intensity of his climax, but he firmly slapped his face to ward off a prolactin stupor. After quickly washing his hair and his body, he shut off the water, though he didn't step out of the tub until he was certain he could wrap a towel around himself without scarring poor Molly with any awkward, lingering bulges.

With that accomplished, he tied the fluffy terrycloth closed at his hips. Clearing his throat and sucking in a deep breath, he strode out into the main area, back straight, face austere.

Molly now sat upright in the bed, working a brush through her thick hair. Though her cheeks were still a little red, she looked calm and collected. And she seemed more than willing to act as if whatever-it-was-that-had-happened _hadn't _happened, too.

"I was wondering… if you'd like to drive around and see a bit of the island?" he asked her, and then blinked. He'd not realized he was going to make such an offer until it came out.

Molly smiled, quite happily really. "That would be lovely."

Nodding once, awkwardly, he turned and flung open the wardrobe, grabbing the first shirt and trousers his hand found in its depths. Shuffling and unzipping alerted him that Molly, too, was pulling out clothing, and he wondered if they'd have to make a mad dash to the partitioned bathing area to change. Normally, Sherlock was not one for blushing modesty, but even he had his limits.

Deciding he'd be gracious, he kept his back turned until he'd heard her move across the room and out of sight (or mostly out of sight, he acknowledged with a frustrated mutter. _Is it really so hard to build a solid wall without hinges?_ he silently asked the high-end yurt developers).

By the time she reemerged several minutes later, dressed in jeans and an enormous cable knit jumper (she looked rather… cuddly… Sherlock noticed with keen distress) and a blue ribbon in hair, he'd moved to the kitchen area. When she reached him, he thrust a piece of heavily buttered bread at her. She jumped a little at the stilted, bashful offering, but accepted the food with quiet thanks.

He thought he'd managed to affect an air of nonchalance about the whole ordeal. Where'd that glibness gone?

"I searched the cupboards for coffee and tea. There doesn't appear to be any. Coffee or tea, that is. Not cupboards. They're right here," he said with a nervous bray, slapping the knotty wood door of one. He shook his head, aghast by his sudden impression of a schoolboy. And still, he continued to stutter, "But maybe perhaps it's possible and feasible that the bothy has some. But maybe not. You never can tell unless you… you _look_."

She looked at him over the bread, an eyebrow arched as she bit off a large helping. "_'But maybe perhaps it's possible and feasible,_'" she ruminated around her bite. A slow smile tilted her lips. "Indubitably but doubtful."

"Oh, shut up," he sniffed, moving to the door. "Let's go. Some of us would like to start our day."

"And some of us have to figure out if Schrödinger's coffee can be located."

He snorted, indignant. Grabbing his coat from a twee, iron hook shaped like a bird on a branch (he'd heard Molly resentfully mutter "anthropologie" the night before, and she'd then made mimicky, sarcastic sounds at his correction that the study of birds was actually _ornithology_), Sherlock tugged it on and moved out into a cold, misty morning.

Settling into the car, she turned and watched Sherlock fasten his seatbelt, smiling slightly. "Good morning, Sherlock. Did you sleep well?"

He almost gawped, but her intent occurred to him at the last second: a restart. An accord to move past any awkwardness and get on with it.

"Well enough, Molly," he said, smirking slowly. "But I do wish you hadn't insisted on staying in the yurt. I fear its structural integrity is not up the task of braving Scottish weather."

Her cackling laugh had him smiling as he accelerated away from their temporary living quarters. His mood improved as they put more distance between them and it. From there on out, he told himself, he'd face none of the stress of earlier.

Things, indeed, were looking up.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sometimes, you just have to take awkward boners to a whole new level.

Thanks to **dietplainlite** for the beta!

As ever, thank you to everyone who has favorited, kudos'd, followed, and subscribed! And thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I will hopefully have time to respond individually later this evening, but in the meantime, I truly appreciate the kind words!


	4. Chapter Four: Holy Palmers' Kiss

**Chapter Four: Holy Palmers' Kiss**

* * *

><p>Sherlock had never been one for sightseeing. When his parents still tried to drag him with them on holidays as a boy, he did not face the prospect of comparing men to rocks and mountains with any enthusiasm. Mummy and Father had despaired, but often left him alone in the car or hotel room with a book while they wandered off to get a closer look at local attractions.<p>

It wasn't that he disliked places of historical or geological import. As he'd told John, he could appreciate the beauty of things without feeling any need to understand their provenance or reason for existing. His mind was cluttered enough without archaeological or epochal minutiae.

On a normal day, when Sherlock was engaged in a normal case, he would sooner be caught combat crawling through a Peer's garden than be found taking in the sights. And yet, there he was, driving down narrow Hebridean roads with Molly Hooper, following her directions to various and sundry attractions.

* * *

><p>"It's only because Maurice Stonebridge hasn't returned my call," he'd snippily told her when she'd commented on the strangeness of playing tourist with Sherlock Holmes.<p>

"Indeed," she agreed somberly, though Sherlock thought he'd caught a glimpse of dimples that only appeared in conjunction with a smile.

His eyes had narrowed before returning to the road. "Don't get used to it."

She'd held her hands up in mock surrender, though he noted that she had conjured a sticky notepad and bookmarked several pages of her Lewis and Harris Board of Tourism booklet.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, how often are we going to find ourselves outside of the city for a case? Do let me know if you ever have one that takes you to Madame Tussaud's, though. I'd really like to get a picture of you with the Boris Johnson wax figure."

A vague memory of a voice saying, _'The Grinch had a wonderfully awful idea'_, wafted through his mind and he'd grimaced. "The actor?"

"What do you mean, the act—no, not Boris Karloff." Molly had grinned. "Boris Johnson. The mayor of London."

He'd shrugged, not at all chagrinned. "Either one would be equally dull. I believe I once discovered some political subterfuge surrounding Karloff, though. Something to do with an arts council appointment and chicken feed."

"Johnson, Sherlock," she'd patiently reminded him again. "Karloff died nearly ten years before you were born."

He'd remained quiet for a full minute before muttering, "That would have made it all the more scandalous."

Molly's snicker was almost rewarding. And then she'd suddenly started wriggling in her seat, pointing and screeching, "Whale Bone Arch! Whale Bone Arch!"

"Yes, Molly. I see it. It's hard to miss. I take it you want to stop?"

She had. They'd stayed for three quarters of an hour.

Sherlock had hung back, watching her scuttle around the giant arch, chatting amiably with a Scottish Heritage employee while she snapped pictures on her mobile.

And that was when he started to worry for himself.

Had it been anyone other than Molly, he would have accelerated past the structure made from a beached whale's jawbone, excited flailing be damned. More to the point, to make amends for their sordid morning in the least hands-on way possible, he would have just forked over the car keys back at the yurt and sent the other party on their way, not suggested a day spent in each other's company.

No, though. He'd offered to drive and then felt relatively content to stand there and wait as Molly got her fill of the whale bone and the two sites they'd visited prior to that.

In fact, his only comfort had been the dubious judgment he still felt for her interest. He just couldn't understand why she would _want_ to visit something made from the bones of a dead whale when she couldn't even read human interest articles about rescued pets without crying.

There was a reason _he'd_ refused a closer examination.

* * *

><p>Schoolchildren in the United Kingdom have more than a passing familiarity with standing stones and henges.<p>

Throughout his career as a student, Sherlock had lost count of the times that he and his classmates had been bundled onto a bus and carted off to Wiltshire. He'd seen Stonehenge in both rain and shine and, while impressed, he hadn't felt terribly moved by it.

If Stonehenge wasn't his cuppa, as Mrs. Hudson would say, then any smaller standing stones were even less remarkable to him. Whether visiting them with his parents, classmates, or idly looking out of a car window on his own and seeing a stone circle just off of the carriageway, to him, they'd been just one more feature as he scanned the landscape.

Molly bore no such blasé attitude about megalith sites. She freely admitted to taking special access tours to Stonehenge for the single purpose of getting into the inner circle. She had even volunteered on a small excavation of a lithic site during a Uni module. Prior to their deaths, her grandparents had the crumbled remains of a standing stone circle in their back paddock outside of Blackpool, she explained while they hiked up to the island's Callanish I standing stones.

"It was in such a poor state, English Heritage hardly glanced at it before they told my grandmother that they could recommend a rock removal service if she'd like." She glanced at Sherlock to see if he was even paying attention.

He nodded for her to continue.

"Whenever I went to stay with them during term holidays, even into my teens, I would weave dandelion and ribbon crowns and go dance in the circle, making believe I was a druid. And now I'm regretting speaking." Twin patches of color bloomed in her cheeks.

Confused, Sherlock scowled as they wove around one of the legs of the outer cruciform. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if ever there were a ranking of flights of fancy, I would say a fourteen-year-old dancing around a stone circle in a flower crown would top it."

Unbidden, the image came to mind. He could see a younger Molly, hair loose and flying while she twirled around (gracelessly; a dancer Molly Hooper most certainly was not), barefoot on summer grass while she daydreamed about pagan magic.

Somehow it fit, so he only looked at her coolly and said, "I planned to become a seventeenth century pirate until I was twelve."

Stunned-apparently by his lack of caustic remark, more than his piracy admission—Molly stared at him, tripping on a large rock just as they reached the inner circle. Though she staggered only a little and caught herself, Sherlock grabbed her arm to steady her.

He didn't realize that they'd stopped walking until she shuffled her feet sheepishly and he let go of her belatedly. "Sorry," she muttered. "Anyway, sad to hear we both had unrealized goals as children. I still regret never achieving my calling as a pagan ceremonial… person."

"Perhaps you didn't know the right conjuring dance moves," he suggested, his tone nearly teasing.

Her smile widened. "And seventeenth century piracy just doesn't have a stronghold at Eton, so you probably just missed the ship."

Sherlock surprised himself with a small chuckle. "Yet, we continue to dream," he said with feigned wistfulness.

"I rather think I've become a realist," Molly sniffed haughtily, but her smile betrayed her.

"A realist who still puts ribbons in her hair," he murmured, reaching up to finger one of the fluttering tails of her bow. His knuckles brushed the side of her cheek and they both froze, staring at each other.

It was the first time they had touched since the events of that morning. It was such a strange dichotomy: the carnal nature of their awakening versus the innocence of Sherlock's fingers accidentally touching her face.

That the latter should make him feel just as off kilter as the former was something with which he was only just coming to terms.

He opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't be sure of what he intended to say. Flummoxed, he closed it again and only waited to follow Molly's lead on the matter. He didn't realize he hadn't moved his hand until she reached up with her own and cupped it, her fingertips tickling slightly.

When she didn't do much else, he forced his hand relax, his fingers to uncurl from their tense stasis. When they did, he traced the soft curve of her ear with the pads of his fingertips, and she shivered a little.

"My hair's too short now to tie all of it back," she whispered finally. "Headbands hurt my head."

He smiled a little and whispered back, "The ribbon suits you."

Together, they lowered their hands and finally turned to look at the stones surrounding them. Moving in opposite directions, they followed the inner circle's perimeter, studying the echoes of Bronze Age ceremony.

With the roiling sky bringing in dark clouds, the crashing waves just over a hill, and their solitude, even Sherlock had to admit that it felt atmospheric. Without the bustle of a city and little view of the village of Callanish, it would be easy to feel swept up in the mystery of the stones.

He came to a stop in front of the center stone, studying its odd, weathered shape. At some point, it'd had a circle the size of a plate charger carved through the stone. Time and erosion had done nothing to preserve it, and now all that remained was a semicircular notch in the stone's side.

Something caught Sherlock's eye, and he squinted to make out what he was seeing. Lines and crosshatches marred the façade of the stone, and he smiled in satisfaction, realizing what he was seeing.

"Molly," he called. When she made a vague noise of acknowledgment, he sighed, put upon that she hadn't materialized then and there. "I've found a script for a pagan ceremony for you."

That got her attention. Trotting over to him, she looked at the center stone with wide-eyed interest. She followed his line of sight and positively beamed when she realized what he'd found.

"You can read ogham?" she breathed.

Barely. "Yes," he said, instead. The devil was in the details, after all.

When he didn't expound, she lightly poked his arm repeatedly, though she didn't tear her eyes away from the ancient script. "What kind of ceremony is it?"

Of course she would have to ask that. He slowly moved over the unfamiliar script, working to remember _anything_, really. "I doubt this is an actual, orthodox carving," he said, instead, hoping Molly'd lose interest.

"Amazing," she whispered, enraptured. "Scholastic ogham is still from the earliest years of the Common Era, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock grudgingly agreed.

"So what does it say?" Molly prodded him again with that poking finger. Distractedly, he darted his hand out and made a grab for her, stilling her excited twitching by closing his fingers over hers.

"It's worn, so I might not be able to translate the full thing." He was eschewing, but stalling had served him well in the past. Maybe Molly would remember an urgent appointment and he'd be saved from having to play translator.

"Better than nothing," she reminded him, bouncing on her toes a little while she waited him out.

Brow furrowed, he looked for familiar words. "It's an equinox ceremony. To be performed yearly on Samhain, the pagan new year." At least he_ thought_ that was what it said. He certainly recognized the word Samhain and several mentions of a 'full year.'"

"Talk about timing." Molly scooted up against Sherlock, still rapt with interest. "Tomorrow's the thirty-first."

He considered her for a moment before returning to his study. "It isn't really an instruction manual, but it says participants in the ceremony are supposed to stand so they can see each other through the hole in this stone, called the Odin Stone. Remnants of the Old Norse religions practiced here prior to the arrival of the Picts. You're lucky it's not in Pictish, by the way, since no one can translate any of its text."

"Ja," she agreed cheerfully.

He rolled his eyes. "Move to the other side of the stone and stick your right hand through the circle," he instructed.

Molly stared at him. "We're actually going to _do_ a pagan Samhain ceremony?"

Shrugging, he used his hold on her hand to push her out and away from him, wheeling her towards the other side of the stone. "Follow your dreams or whatever the rot you see on cross stitch samplers says to do."

"My dream isn't really to—"

"You say that now, but our conversation about hair ribbons indicates differently. We'll need that, by the way."

Molly now faced him through the semicircle. Though she still looked excited, she also appeared to be a little taken aback by Sherlock's instructions. "Need what?" she asked dazedly.

Sighing, Sherlock reached through and tugged her light blue hair ribbon loose, untying it by pulling on the same end he'd caressed earlier.

"We both say these words. Fortunately, this is easy enough to sound out if you know the Beith-Luis-Nin alphabet."

"Yes," Molly agreed blandly. "What a relief, except to those of us who don't know it."

"Quiet." He took a hold of her hand once more, this time with his right hand, only sparing a moment to ponder the strange intimacy of their surroundings and their small contact with each other. Tuning it out, he turned back to the ogham. "Listen carefully and repeat after me."

After her initial facetiousness, Molly gamely went along with Sherlock. She stuttered through the ceremonial proceedings a lot better than most would, he thought proudly.

When it came time to wind the ribbon around their joined hands, she laughed as they struggled to secure the slick, satin ribbon with just one hand on each side.

"You're _sure_ this is an equinox ceremony?" she asked between giggles. "I swear I've seen it in some other context, but I can't remember where."

He wasn't. There was one particular word that he couldn't interpret and it was repeated multiple times.

"Of course I'm certain," he fibbed. She need never know.

Unfortunately, Molly did know _him_ and she knew when he was lying. She and Mary Watson were quite alike in that regard. But when she arched a challenging brow at him, his haughty stare only made her laugh again.

And he couldn't fight a grin in response. Quickly, though, he sobered and cleared his throat. "Please be serious. We have important work to be done here. We wouldn't want to set Bacchus free or something due to an incomplete ceremony."

"Bacchus is Roman," she stage whispered.

"Hush," he whispered back.

They stumbled their way through the rest of the recitations, Molly's hand warm in his. After their last words died away, Sherlock stared at the ogham. That word he couldn't begin to translate taunted him, as did the very last word.

_Bound_. What was bound, he wondered.

Molly's hand wiggling against his tore his stare away from the stone. Her ribbon now held fast, and she pulled futilely, hoping the slack ends would give. Sherlock watched her struggles mutely, reminded of those Chinese finger traps from his childhood. The more she pulled, the tighter the ribbon seemed to be.

"You do have another hand," he finally told her without any real censure, and Molly grinned at him, guileless as ever.

"I do, but that would make sense, Sherlock. Do keep up. I don't see you helping," she reminded him.

He sniffed. "I offer vital suggestions and moral support. What more could you want?"

"Your version of 'moral support' leaves something to be desired," she snickered. And then she began laughing again outright.

"What?" he asked, mouth curving slightly.

"This. Us. You have to admit, Sherlock, this is probably the first time you've found yourself literally tied to a woman in a Scottish field after _you_ performed a pagan ceremony."

His smile started to widen, but as he watched her drop her head back, stomping her feet with mirth over the entire ridiculous day, he was struck by her, by just how pretty and happy she looked despite every weird thing that had led to their current predicament.

Without pausing to think what he was doing, Sherlock lifted their hands out of the worn-through circle in the Odin Stone and stepped around it, stepped up to Molly. She grinned up at him, not questioning his serious expression or his sudden proximity.

In fact, she even scooted up onto tiptoe when he cupped the back of her neck with his free hand and bent to her, kissing her still-smiling mouth. Their bound hands made for an awkward embrace, but somehow, they managed.

They managed, and then some. As his lips pressed against hers more insistently, he could feel her free hand under his coat and jacket, clutching his shirt at small of his back. Her index finger on the hand tied to his stroked the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist.

He made a low sound, sliding his hand from her neck down over her back so he could hold her tighter against him. His fingertips dipped slightly into the waistband of her trousers. Encouraged, Molly swiped the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip, and when he drew in a sharp breath, she took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Sherlock gladly met her halfway, enjoying the tiny electric shocks the arced through him with each, hot slide of their tongues and the small moans he elicited from her, and she from him.

He wished he could wrap both arms around her, but he took no time to step back to unwind the ribbon. Sure, his fingers might eventually fall asleep, circulation inhibited by the push of their bodies against each other, but it seemed a worthy sacrifice. Until Molly complained, he would keep the kissing status quo.

That didn't mean he didn't move at all. At some point (he couldn't clearly recall when), he'd decided to push her up against the Odin Stone to compensate for the lack of aid from his arm in keeping her as flush against him as possible while he dipped his head down to suck a mark on the fluttering pulse in her neck. The coolness of the rock face against the back of his free hand barely registered. In fact, it was almost a relief, considering the heat of Molly to his front. He felt the pulse of arousal pick up tempo, and this time, he welcomed it.

That said, though his hips rocking against Molly's and her excited reciprocal movements were perfectly agreeable, a small, reasoned part of Sherlock's brain chimed in. Intellectually, he knew he shouldn't divest them both of their trousers, hitch her legs up around his hips, and proceed to fuck her furiously against a site of Scottish antiquity. It would likely be frowned upon by any passing village folk.

Not to mention difficult, what with their hands tied together as they were.

Molly apparently had similar thoughts. She made no protest when Sherlock finally broke contact between his lips and her skin. They breathed heavily, foreheads together in what struck him as a surprisingly sweet calming. They did not speak, but their loose hands continued to stroke over each other's backs and hair.

When he eventually felt less fevered, he drew back from her. They smiled a bit sheepishly at each other, though Molly unselfconsciously reached up to trace her thumb over his cheek. He turned his face further into her touch.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

He made a small hum of acknowledgment.

"I don't have any feeling in my hand."

"Second hands are superfluous, really," he tried, possibly _cuddling_ closer to her.

She pressed a kiss to his chest. "True. But Farmer MacTavish is also staring at us from the bottom of the hill."

That got Sherlock to pull away where nothing else could. He jerked around, scowling. Swearing, he engaged in a small scale glare-off with the man.

"How long do you think he's been there?" he asked Molly sotto voce.

"He just walked up," she assured him. "But I'd rather not give him any more fodder against us."

Nodding in agreement, Sherlock stepped back. He raised his hand to offer the farmer a carefree wave, but made the mistake of using his right hand. Molly swore loudly when her own arm was yanked unceremoniously above her head, and Sherlock quickly lowered it back down and set to unwinding the ribbon.

Glancing over down the hill while he worked to unsnarl it, Sherlock willed the farmer to continue on slogging through the mud in his dirty wellies. MacTavish only glowered some more up at them while a lone cow nosed at his hand. Finally, though, he shook his head and moved off. But not so quickly that they didn't hear his parting shot.

The people of the Hebrides were the last Gàidhlig-speaking stronghold in Scotland. A handful of the Isle of Lewis' occupants spoke it primarily, only switching to English when tourists happened through. So it was a bit of a shock, when, instead of a salty insult in his first language, MacTavish very distinctly muttered, "Bleeding weirdos."

Sherlock took umbrage. The man acted like he'd never seen two adults embracing against a king stone with their hands bound together before.

"What a pleasant gentleman," Molly mused, though her eyes were busy following Sherlock as he tried (and failed) to stealthily pocket the ribbon as a keepsake.

"He's probably jealous," he suggested, and offered no explanation for his petty theft.

"I've yet to meet a Significant Other MacTavish," she agreed.

Ushering her ahead of him, he thought on it. "Sure you have." She turned back and raised her eyebrows in question. "Do keep up," he instructed. "It's Roberta the Bruce."

Molly's peal of laughter echoed off of the otherwise silent stones as they picked their way back down the hill to the car. Their hands brushed occasionally while they walked, until Molly finally grabbed hold of him, lacing their fingers together.

Sherlock was forced to admit that this was better. Holding Molly Hooper's hand had started to feel rather natural.

* * *

><p><strong>Bastardization of HistoryArchaeology Disclaimer: **There isn't actually an Odin Stone on the Isle of Lewis, but there are/were a couple scattered around Scotland; There really aren't any ceremonial engravings to be found. Mostly all archaeologists find are stones with words tantamount to "Bob wuz here". Also, I couldn't find any information on whether or not ribbons were used in the handfasting ceremonies associated with Old Norse ceremonial stones. For the sake of this story, they totally were. Go with me on this.

Thank you so much to everyone who's favorited, given kudos, subscribed, and reviewed the story thus far. I know I said I would try to reply to reviews after last week's update, but this time I really will. *she says with all the dependability of that kid's dad in Angels in the Outfield who promises to return to his son when the Angels win the pendant but then doesn't so Danny Glover (in this case, miabicicleta or dietplainlite) adopts him, instead, and the kid is better off for it*

Thanks to **dietplainlite** for the beta-ing and saying, "What were you trying to say here? How? Why? Go eat a McFlurry and think this through, dude."


	5. Chapter Five: The Yeti's Offering

**Chapter Five: The Yeti's Offering**

* * *

><p>It wasn't that they didn't know exactly what they'd do when they returned to the yurt. Though they did not say it aloud, Sherlock felt no misunderstanding about the fact that he and Molly were about to embark on night of depraved and probably excellent shagging. So the bout of nerves and shyness that struck him as he paced a radian in the yurt rankled.<p>

He busied his hands, suddenly shaky, by gathering up a few receipts and notes from his pockets and stuffing them away in his suitcase. He willed his face to remain nonchalant without looking dismissive, calm without looking uninterested. Glancing at the privacy screen, he felt a flicker of annoyance that Molly apparently felt nothing so juvenile as bashful wrong-footedness.

She'd even managed to carry on a normal conversation as they drove away from Callanish I.

* * *

><p>"What is it," he'd asked, shifting a little in his seat as he stole glances of her.<p>

She'd smiled a little at something on her mobile before locking it and tucking it in her bag's front pocket.

When she'd turned to him, lips still curved gently, he carefully met her gaze—expression schooled and oh-so-mature. It wouldn't do to look gauchely eager.

"Just got a message from Mary. The baby took her first steps today."

"Who?" he asked. He'd been busy thinking about sinking his teeth in her earlobe.

Molly hadn't looked terribly impressed, so he'd retraced her actual words. "Oh," he nodded. "Good, good." And then he frowned. "Isn't eight months awfully young for that?"

"You're joking, right?" she asked blandly.

"N—yes?"

She shook her head. "Eight months would be alarmingly early for a baby to walk. Which is why it's relief that Beatrix is thirteen months old."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but he started counting back, coming to the conclusion that Molly was, distressingly, right.

"She's your goddaughter," she had started in. He'd rolled his eyes. "You spend inordinate amounts of time with her, but you don't know how old she is?"

"Unlike the attention-hoarding masses, she didn't demand a fuss over her birthday. I'd simply forgotten the event."

"She smeared her entire smash cake in your hair at her party," Molly reminded him, deadpan.

"Infants are quite good about sharing. It's only in toddlerhood—often defined as age one and on—that they become changeling nightmares," he'd informed her primly as he brought the Peugeot to a stop in front of the yurt.

Snorting, she moved to unbuckle her seatbelt. "And you're saying these infants normally reserve their cake largesse for non-birthday events, so why remember the occasion?"

"The point is," he said loudly, "Bea and I recognize that age is often a societal construct that determines neither maturity nor physical development. I feel entirely confident in saying that she would have wanted to share her cake with me even at eight months. Why should walking be any different?"

"Interesting logic gymnastics," his passenger had conceded, albeit with a smirk. His eyes had narrowed as he'd followed her inside, but as he'd been about to suggest that they forget about walking hellions and return to their earlier, far more interesting activities, she'd breezily hurried to her suitcase and gathered up an armful of clothes and tablet, moving towards the bathing area with her treasures.

"I'm headed for a bath," she'd called over her shoulder. Before he could voice his dismay, the creaking faucet had drowned out any chance of being heard.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, and about five after the water had stopped running, Sherlock still paced, unsure of Molly's plans.<p>

Perhaps the forecasted depraved-and-excellent-shagging _had_ been a misapprehension. She certainly hadn't thrown the deadbolt and torn away his trousers in the style of male strippers (ever so rarely, his imagination did tend to edge towards the puerile). She'd not shoved him against the door and breathlessly told him to take her then and there. She'd not even looked flushed while she announced her bathing designs.

Paired with their earlier, non sequitur discussion about John's sprog, of all things, and Sherlock found himself questioning everything.

It wasn't that he thought he was getting the short shrift. Molly could damn well decide when and where they should take that step, and he'd go along. But he'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't let the anticipation coast him all the way back to their holiday rental. The way she had bitten her lip, grinned conspiratorially at him, and taken his hand so insistently as they made their way back to the car from the standing stones had certainly _felt_ like they were in accord.

Her bath announcement didn't fall in line with that anticipation.

And what could he do? If he were in a more tactless mood, he would have loudly asked her, "Are we going to have sex now or not? I need to know for my diary," through the partition. But Molly had apparently caught him on a good day, what with her winsome, rosy cheeks, her pretty eyes, and her drugging kisses. So he held his tongue.

Instead, he paced, listening to dribbles of water, imagining her lifting her hand or foot and watching the streaks slide down the pale length of her arm or leg. Had she filled it only to her shoulders or up to the overflow drain, warm water tickling her chin where she sat? She'd always struck him as the neck-deep sort, and that tendency would only be encouraged by the cold of the Hebrides.

Distressingly, he forced himself to acknowledge that such a warm bath would likely keep her comfortable and occupied for a while. Yet there he was, pacing like a dolt, waiting for her to reemerge and get down to the business of intercourse.

Issuing instructions to himself to grow up, Sherlock turned from the wall and scanned the yurt, looking for something to do. There was a small selection of books; mass market novels. Boring. He could make dinner, but he figuredMolly would not bombastically cast off her knickers at the prospect of another Cullen Skink.

His eyes landed on her mobile, currently resting on a small table by the front door.

He _could_ do some work.

Hurrying over, he picked the phone up, mentally telling it and himself that he'd just wait Molly out and follow her lead. An odd sensation all around, but certainly better than offending someone he'd ostensibly like to see naked with some regularity.

Eying the privacy screen, he unlocked the screen and set about checking his email and voicemail, making sure Molly'd not missed a call from Maurice Stonebridge while they were in not-nearly-flagrante-enough delicto.

Seeing not a word from his elusive client, Sherlock scowled. Molly could be seducing him from the warm comfort of his own, Baker Street flat, were it not for the oaf.

Of course, had they not found themselves all but stranded on a remote island, they wouldn't have had the help of that ridiculous hand tying and ogham text to engender thisoxytocic, fluttery feeling. It would have made the timeline of events slightly more protracted than what this trip fostered.

Ah, ogham. He should do a little research and translate those words that had puzzled him. Molly would be entertained to hear a literal translation of their little foray into pagan ceremony.

Just as he pulled up the web browser on the mobile, however, it's screen changed, signaling an incoming call. Sherlock frowned, not recognizing the number, noting that it wasn't a contact saved in Molly's address book.

Shrugging, he thumbed the answer bar, engaging the call.

"Molly Hooper's phone," he answered officiously.

"Hi there!" chirped an echoing voice. "I've a need to hire your services."

Sherlock looked up sharply when the person began speaking. Her voice came from both the receiver and from behind the privacy partition.

"Molly," he called sternly.

"I'm sorry, you're awfully muffled," she replied. "Would you mind speaking more directly into the phone?"

"You can hear me just fine." He heard an echo of his own voice float back to him. So she had him on speakerphone. But what phone was she using, he wondered, baffled.

"I hope you can help me," she said lowly, forcing him to lift the mobile back to his ear to hear her.

"With what?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock heard twin splashes, milliseconds between in-yurt and through the cellular waves. "I need your consultation on something," she said. He could hear the smirk in her words.

"Consult on what?" He told himself that the nervous edge to his voice was only in his imagination.

"Come here," was her only reply.

Something kicked, low in his belly, and Sherlock was movingtowards the screen before he'd given himself permission to do so. His heart rate significantly picked up its pace in the short space between where he'd stood and where Molly waited.

Clearing the screen, he stared at her.

Not covered in water, then.

It barely reached her ribs. She lay there, reclined back with arms braced along the lip of the tub, bare breasts shining in the low light from water that streamed down her torso. Her nipples were hard pebbles, exposed to the air as they were, but she showed no evidence of being cold herself.

"Consultant on what? How'd you call me?" His voice cracked noticeably. He tore his eyes away from the ripples of clear water above her waist, disguising nothing below its surface.

Molly lifted her far hand, revealing her tablet device. Disconnecting what appeared to be a Skype call, she let it fall back to the floor without paying it any mind.

"Come closer," she prompted him.

He stepped [stumbled] further into the 'bathroom', stuffing her mobile in his trouser pocket. The area was small enough that one stride of his had him standing level with her hips. His eyes darted over her again, transfixed.

"You see, Mr. Holmes," Molly said, biting her lip ruefully, "I just need some answers. I'm hoping you can give them to me."

He nodded mutely. At that moment, she could ask him _anything_ and he'd give an earnest reply without blinking.

She smiled up at him for a second, a flash of curved lips and dimples, before she schooled her expression once more. "I was just wondering…. When you put your hands on me, how are you going to do it?"

Throat dry, Sherlock stared down at her. A voice in the recesses of his mind told him that he needed to respond instead of blinking uncomprehendingly, but he continued to do nothing.

Molly looked up at him, waiting. When he remained stock-still, she shifted a little. "Sit down, Gus. You're making me nervous."

"Gus?" he said absently.

"_The Big Sleep_. Never mind. You certainly know how to _loom_."

Sherlock sank to his knees in front of the tub, unaware that he'd moveduntil he looked down at his white-knuckled grip on its edge, and Molly's left fingertips brushing the side of his hand.

"What are you doing?" It was a rare feat, to mystify Sherlock Holmes. Molly certainly had a knack for it.

"I would think it's obvious," she smiled.

He looked up and down the length her, scanning her and clearing his throat. "

"You want to know how I would touch you?" he asked, his voice pitched low with the dizzying onset of arousal.

She looked up at him so guilelessly, considering her open splay in the tub, breasts on bold display, one knee bent and her thighs slightly parted underwater.

"_Would_ touch me?" she asked

He cleared his throat, feasting his eyes over her again. "Will touch you. How I _will_ touch you."

She relaxed infinitesimally, the barest fraction that he only caught because he was studying the jut of her ribs and collarbones and the quiver of muscles in her belly.

"How _will_ you touch me, Sherlock?" she asked again.

He licked his lips, vaguely noting that they'd gone as dry as his throat when he stepped around the partition.

"I plan to—" he began stiltedly, and then he realized he had no idea. He'd given no thought the pre-intercourse portion of their evening. "People do this for fun?" he asked her instead, darting his gaze back to her face.

"Sit in rapidly cooling tubs? It's been known to happen. The _fun_ bit is a shifting scale," Molly said with a grin.

He looked at her severely, to cover his dismay that the evening he'd reconciled having had fled with the ringing of Molly's mobile. Sure, he'd pictured eventual, energetic shagging, but in a far more… traditional way.

Molly's impish smile did _things_ to him. So he shook his head, to clear the cobwebs and to correct her. "People talk about the sex they'll have instead of just… getting on with it?"

Not looking at all perturbed, she reclined back. "Don't tell me you've never been excited by a little dirty talk, Sherlock 'Begging For Mercy Twice' Holmes."

"How'd you—never mind. John has a big mouth."

"I'm getting wrinkly," Molly said instead of continuing to allude to Irene Adler. She examined her fingertips with a wrinkled nose.

This conversation did little to boost Sherlock's confidence in the spoken foreplay department. He idly wondered if this was what it felt like to be cut adrift in a rubber dinghy.

"I can give you some talking points," she offered helpfully.

"Hush," he admonished, eyes roving over her, cataloging pulse points and recalling places he'd seen her touch and massage when a shift at work stretched too long.

"I'll start with your neck; just touching your skin. I'll eventually move my way down." He looked to her for approval.

She nodded eagerly. "And?"

He relaxed a little. It was cartography, a matter of explaining his plans of exploration.

"I've only touched your breast once." He kept his gaze on her chest, cheeks warming at the memory of that morning, "I can guess its weight by observing it. I should _know_, but it hardly registered because we were lying down when I touched you."

"So you'll do that next," she prompted.

He nodded. "The neck is an erogenous zone. So many nerve endings. I'll kiss you there while I hold and tease your breasts. They'll fit perfectly in the palms of my hands." His eyes continued their darting run from her face to the places on her anatomy that he admired with words.

"Eventually, I'll move my lips from your neck, across your collarbones, and down, until I have one of those rosy nipples in my mouth." She drew in a sharp breath, and his lips curved for the first time, her reactions centering him. "I will suck and nip them until you are panting for me."

"Perhaps," Molly agreed noncommittally, but he saw her pupils dilate and felt the fingertips of her left hand stroke along his pinkie, back and forth.

His confidence kicked in more and more with each passing second and each approving reaction from her. "I'll run my hands up and down your back, over and over, scraping my thumbnail along the length of your spine, because the way you shivered against me back at the rocks excited me."

She did just that, a small spasm moving across her body, and he could follow its progress over her skin and below, in the contraction of muscle and sinew.

"I like kissing you, Molly Hooper," he whispered, and she settled back in, but this time with a shy smile. "I like it, so I don't see any reason why I wouldn't keep doing it periodically while I'm touching you. I crave sensation, after all."

He smiled back at her, genuinely and without reserve. They stayed that way for several moments, until his cock throbbed, encouraging him to resume their game.

"Eventually, though, I think I will move away form your lips and your breasts and kiss these moles." He reached forward, the tip of his index finger barely glancing over the marks in question: a cluster of three moles directly below her right breast.

She jerked a little at the fleeting contact, emitting a surprised squeak at his slight bending of the unspoken rules.

"I like the protrusion of your bottom ribs. I want to bite them," he added, conversationally. He amazed himself with his candor and the ease of his admissions. "I _will_ bite them. Same thing with your hip bones. Maybe I'll suck marks there, too."

"Oh?" she asked breathlessly, one eyebrow arched.

"Depends on our mood," he conceded, but he allowed the same finger that had touched her moments before to lightly trace figure eights on the precipice between her ribcage and the softness of her belly. He dipped his hand into the hot water, moving to circle his fingertip over the swell of her hips, the slight convex of her stomach, and back to her ribs.

He followed the same path over and over again, not noticing the repetition's soporific effect on him for nearly a minute. When he finally did, he shook his head, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were glazed as she looked down her torso at his stroking finger.

When he spoke again, voice rough, she jumped in surprise.

"I'll bite and suck on your breasts, your ribs, your hips, right below your belly button, and here," he said, moving his hand to trace the same shape on her inner thigh. She twitched at the contact, her breath coming faster

"Where else?" she murmured.

"Where else would you like me to taste you, Molly?"

She licked her lips, eyes slipping closed at his touch. "You know where."

"I think I do," he crooned. "Is it… here?" He grabbed her thigh just above her knee, giving her a tickling horse bite.

If she'd startled before, it was nothing to the way she jerked in surprise at the contact between his hand and her leg. Water went sloshing as she jerked and shrieked.

He laughed out loud when she splashed water at him in reproof. He _liked_this feeling, this throbbing arousal paired with genuine amusement and teasing enjoyment. He could get used to it.

"Oh, so not there? My mistake. What about here?"

He slid his hand back up the inside of her thigh, up, up, until he was parting her folds and stroking her with just as light a touch as he'd used to finger the constellation of moles on her ribs.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

And then she was moving his hand away. Before he could ask her if something was wrong, she scrambled up on her knees, moving over to him. When she reached him, Sherlock stood, hauling her up with him. The claw feet of the tub brought Molly's height a couple of inches closer to his, so he hardly had to duck his head when he bent to kiss her for the first time in over an hour.

There was no slow build in its passion. Their teeth clacked a few times, and the kiss itself was wet and nearly artless. It felt wonderful.

He barely noticed the water sluicing off of her, soaking his shirt and trousers. He paid no mind to the challenge of lifting her out of the tub and keeping her legs wrapped around his hips as he carried her out of the bathing area. His hands couldn't find much purchase on the slick flesh of her thighs, but the bed was too ambitious a goal to reach, anyway, so he lowered back down to his knees right where he was, on the yeti rug in front of the stove.

Molly lay back languidly, sprawled before him. He knelt between her knees, stroking his large hands up her legs, pushing her thighs further apart. She whispered his name again, her head rolling a little as he once again touched her, sliding against her wet flesh, slippery with arousal now that she was out of the bath water. He dipped his fingertip into her and moved it up to circle the bud of her clitoris.

One of her hands groped for his wrist. She clutched him tightly in place and he watched hungrily as she began rocking her hips, moving against his hand. Her back arched and her head fell back against the rug, her free hand convulsively gripping the long, white fur beneath them.

He hushed her protest when he moved his hand, but when she realized it was only so he could slide one and then two fingers inside of her, she eagerly began moving again. She made low sounds in the back of her throat with the sway of her hips, Sherlock's cock throbbing time with her. He wanted to free himself from his trousers, and stroke his hand up and down his swollen length in sympathetic motion to the furious pitch of Molly's hips as she fucked herself on his fingers, but he wasn't sure he had the coordination.

So he watched as she neared a precipice, manipulating his thumb so that it rubbed her clit with the strokes of her hips.

She shouted when she came, and the fluttering of her muscles around his fingers nearly made Sherlock spend himself then and there. He panted along with her, only withdrawing his hand when she started to push it away.

He leaned over her, reaching up to brush her damp hair back from her face. Still breathing deeply, she opened her eyes blearily, smiling brilliantly at him, and he smiled back.

Though her body lay lax, her hands clutched at him, tugging on his sopping shirtfront until he brought himself down on top of her. He groaned against her lips when her legs wrapped around his waist again, and he thrust against her, enjoying what little friction he could get. Her arms held tightly around him, and his around her, and he wasn't sure how they'd manage the logistics their lovemaking when neither of them seemed particularly inclined to let go of the other.

No matter. He could probably orgasm just thinking about what they'd just done, what _Molly_ had just done. There were worse ways to go.

She solved it for him, though. Reluctantly unwinding her arms and untangling the fingers of one hand from his hair, she wedged her arms between them and began wrestling buttons loose. He lifted himself more firmly on his elbows to allow her space to work, and she unsnapped and unzipped his trousers while she had the chance.

Sherlock was sure he was the epitome of clumsiness while he tried to shuck his clothing as quickly as possible, but Molly eagerly rubbed her hands up and down his chest while he worked.

He arched an eyebrow at the way her eyes, dark pools in the dim light, watched him and she bit her lip in anticipation.

"I'll admit, the dirty talk was arousing. But this is hardly a striptease."

She waggled her eyebrows at him. "I'm trying to figure out a way to sing a slow-groove version of the _Free Willy_ theme song. You're like a big, sexy, beached fish."

Naked, he returned to her, smoothing a hand over her head while he smiled down at her. "You're so strange," he murmured.

"I know you are, but what am I?" she said, winding herself around him.

He gave a small gasp as his leaking cock brushed the damp curls between her legs. She hummed in agreement against his lips, and then squirmed her arm back between them, her small hand closing around him. When she gave him an experimental, squeezing stroke, his hips flexed involuntarily, and he felt the exposed, sensitive head of his cock break through the circle of her fingers and brush her belly.

Burying his face in Molly's neck, Sherlock muttered, "I hardly think that's necessary."

She laughed breathlessly. "Well then. Should we cut to the chase?"

Nodding eagerly, he lifted himself back up on his elbows to look down at her. The glow from the stove's grate cast a slotted pattern of shadows and light on her face.

She'd never looked so beautiful to him.

Molly cupped his cheek, and he lowered his head to kiss her again, sweetly, in contrast to the furor of the last several minutes and the frenzy of what he was certain would follow.

"Don't suppose you have some condoms hiding on your person?" she asked him against his lips.

He shook his head, ashamed that he'd not thought about it. If she'd not brought it up, he'd already be pushing his way inside her. Fortunately, his Molly was rather level headed even as she wiggled against him periodically, letting his cock stroke along her clit.

"Lucky for us, your mum snuck some into my suitcase," she laughed/moaned.

"I'll be mortified later," he said flatly. "Fetch the johnnies."

She flung an arm to the side, her scrabbling fingers just shy of reaching her bag where it lay. "So… far… away," she gasped dramatically.

Rolling his eyes (though, again, he refused to move away from her and he only had an advantage due to his longer limbs), Sherlock grabbed the bag and brought it close enough to her that she could reach into a front pocket and extract a large box of prophylactics.

Sitting back on his knees, he watched as she tore open one of the packets. He breathed sharply through his nose when she, too sat up and gave him a few more pumps with her hand before rolling the latex down his rigid length.

"Ready?" she whispered, grinning at him.

A snarky retort [_I have a massive erection that's already dripping with pre-ejaculate and you're asking me if I'm _ready_? Are you really a doctor?_] nearly passed his lips. Seeing this, Molly moved forward quickly and covered his mouth with her hand.

"Yes, I am, in fact, Captain Obvious," she whispered, giggling. Before he could ask her to explain the reference, she pushed at his chest until he allowed her to guide him back onto the rug. The plush sheepskin felt strange on his bare arse and back, but he could hardly complain. Especially not when she swung a leg over his hips, coming astride him.

Molly positioned him at her entrance, and his eyes fluttered as she sank down, warm, slick, and tight around his thick shaft. She breathed deeply as she came to a stop with him fully seated in her. The way she looked on top of him, hands braced on his belly, had Sherlock reaching up to cup the back of her neck and pull her down to him so they could kiss again.

As their tongues stroked against each other, he angled his hips and swiveled them slightly, only moving in and out of her a little. Her short, round nails bit into his pectoral muscles as he repeated the motion, and soon he was taking her with a steady rhythm that had Molly dropping her face to his chest and puffing out small sounds of pleasure with each stroke.

Sherlock pressed his face against the side of her head, breathing in the clean smell of her hair combined with the sweat and scent of sex around them.

His range of motion was limited enough that he soon felt like he'd hit some kind of—admittedly, highly enjoyable—plateau. Molly must have agreed, because she finally sat up and began riding him in earnest, her fingers clutching her thighs while she rocked and swayed over him. He managed to pry her hands loose, weaving their fingers together. She squeezed them tightly as the slick sounds of their joining increased with each plunge and retreat of their bodies.

He moaned loudly, and spared a moment to be glad that they had no neighbors, since both he and Molly weren't any facsimile of quiet. Especially not while she clutched tighter and tighter to him, and his tenuous grasp on control slipped with each passing moment.

When he felt the undeniable signs that his orgasm was imminent, he reared up, winding his arms under hers, hooking his hands over her shoulders so he could pull her down on him roughly. Molly made a high-pitched noise when he did it, and her pace increased in encouragement. He felt the brush of her fingertips as she slid a hand between them, down to wear they were joined.

Soon, the cry she gave and the clench and release of her muscles around him swamped him with sheer pleasure and he let go, coming in buckling pulses inside of her.

They stopped moving, cheeks pressed damply together, seemingly stunned into submission finally. And then they both slid bonelessly back to the ground, sprawling across the large rug. The strands of fur stuck uncomfortably to his skin, exacerbated by the swelter of the stove beating down on them. But he couldn't bring himself to care or to move. Blearily, he knew that he should get up and dispose of the condom and fetch them some water, but he was content to lie there a bit longer, feeling the reassuring weight of her leg across his hips, since she'd not had the energy to pull fully away from him.

Eventually, they did move. They dragged themselves on rubbery legs over to the bed and collapsed on it. Significantly cooler, Molly curled up along Sherlock's side, and within minutes, her slow breathing indicated that she'd fallen asleep. Her head on his arm might eventually cut off circulation, but he relished her closeness for the time being, and he held her tighter.

His mind buzzed, a current of electricity firing across synapses and nerve endings His brain had the clarity that endorphins so often provide, and though he was content to stay pressed to Molly, he didn't think he'd sleep for a long time. He began formulating plan. He'd her rest for a couple of hours and then entice her into another round or three. It was early evening, yet, after all.

He stroked her fingers that rested on his chest, over the delicate bones of her wrist and up her arm, until he distinctly heard her saying, _Don't be creepy_.

Deciding that he could see her point, Sherlock looked over to his bedside table. He'd grabbed her mobile from his trouser pocket as they staggered up off of the floor, and he figured now was as good a time as any to get back to his ogham translation. He wasn't sure what had him so bothered by it, but he knew he'd not settle until he figured it out. Not relinquishing his hold on her, he reached out and dragged the mobile near enough with his fingertips that he could pick it up.

It was a simple matter to pull up the translator and key in the mystery word. As usual, Molly's superior data service yielded results right way.

The first hit in the search engine was a bit amusing, but he vetoed it right away. Language was such a fluid thing, after all.

The second hit gave the same result, and he frowned.

The third hit, though with slightly different phrasing, had a definition that was similar enough that he felt that foreign sensation of _worry._

By the time Sherlock had scrolled through four pages of Gàidhlig translations and had found not one deviation from the initial definition, and then spent another thirty minutes reading about the lore of Odin Stones and binding ceremonies, he had no other choice but to accept it.

That evening, he and Molly Hooper had performed a ceremonial handfasting. They'd exchanged oaths, bound their hands together, and had kissed beside a stone formerly used to make unbreakable promises.

And now they were as good as married.

"Oh," he breathed, careful not to wake the sleeping woman curled around him, "Hell."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thank you so much to all who favorited, followed and commented on the last chapter. I am so pleased people are enjoying the story in all of its ridiculousness, and I hope this chapter won't be the straw that breaks the camel's back in levels of enjoyable-ish-ness.

Thanks so much to **dietplainlite** for taking the hash that was the first draft of this chapter and helping me make it less of a strange mess.


	6. Chapter Six: Cama, Cama, Come On Baby

**Chapter Six: Cama, Cama, Come On, Baby.**

* * *

><p>The jangling of Molly's mobile didn't register at first. In fact, it didn't register at all. The Colombian pop song that flooded the yurt did not enter his consciousness until his bedmate groaned in sleepy agitation, her face pressed to his back. The vibration of her voice against his skin was what finally roused him.<p>

"Cállate, Juanes," Molly whined, even though the mobile had already stopped its ringing. Tugging the duvet over her head, she burrowed closer to Sherlock.

He scrunched his face, not wanting to open his tired, crusty eyes. "I'm not Juanes," he mumbled. "Soy Guillermo. Juan es mi amigo mejor."

"Ha." She kissed his shoulder blade from within her duvet cocoon. Her voice was rough with sleep. "Too bad William's your only translation option. No Spanish equivalent for Sherlock."

"Hmm. What's the translation for Molly?" he mused, more alert now, though his eyes remained closed and he felt content to keep it that way. "Margarita?"

"Margarita means Daisy."

He shrugged. "'Mimar' means 'mollycoddle'. Has a ring to it. Mimar Hooper. I think I'll use it. Mimi for short." His lips curved sleepily while he waited for her to react.

She did not disappoint. "And I'll call you Siguro de Bloqueo. Sure Lock. Sigur for short."

The deafening volume of the mobile startled them as it began ringing again, cutting off Sherlock's snort of amusement.

"What _are_ we listening to?" he demanded, shouting over the ringtone

"Juanes. Who can't follow a single direction." Much to Sherlock's consternation, Molly pulled away from him to fetch her phone, though she cursed colorfully while she rolled across the wide expanse of the bed.

He moved to his back and followed her with his eyes, clutching the bedding so she didn't take it all with her and leave him naked to the cold air. Her hair resembled a thicket on the back of her head, she had marks on her face and shoulder from his pillow, and he spied a trace of drool on her chin.

Sherlock grinned goofily, enjoying Molly-in-the-morning.

"I told you to shut up," she groused at the phone, grabbing it up as it fell silent. "And I missed the call again. Whoops." She didn't sound particularly upset, but she did not move back over to him, instead remaining seated on the edge of the mattress, back to him while she stretched overworked muscles.

That would never do.

"Why the song?" he asked, scooting over until he could walk his fingers up from her lumbar to cervical vertebrae. She shivered when his hand tickled her nape, and he stared in fascination at the goose bumps that rose on her back.

"Hmm? Oh. 'La Camisa Negra'_. I wear a black shirt because it is black like my soul_. It just spoke to me."

Sherlock actually snickered, leaning forward to bite gently at the flesh on the back of her right hip. "Seems an appropriate anthem for you. You're quite evil, after all."

"I really, really am," she agreed primly, though she'd started and shivered again when he'd nipped at her.

Hooking his arm around her middle, Sherlock tugged her back so she lay sprawled across him. He took time to admire the dim morning light on her breasts and the way she almost cooed when he smoothed his hand over her stomach and ribs.

"I guess you don't care that Maurice Stonebridge rang you twice in a matter of minutes," she sighed as he stroked her breast. Her soft flesh had looked so inviting, with her back arched as it was, but the reminder of his client annoyed him enough that he stopped his ministrations with a huff.

"Wanker."

"Yes, Sherlock," she rolled over, not moving off of him, but rearranging so they could lie chest to chest. "We are all aware of how you feel about your client. But you _did_ take his case and you _have _been trying to reach him for two days now."

As if he needed the reminder. There were merely far more interesting things to be done in this yurt. Stonebridge could hang, for all he cared. He hoped his eyes looked hooded and sultry as he stroked a hand down her flank.

"He's a tosser," Sherlock purred.

"Showing me your vast array of synonyms for a masturbator won't detract from the fact that it's your job to be here."

"Are you saying I'm nothing but a paid escort to you, Miss Hooper?"

She bit his chin lightly. "That's Mimar to you. I'm going to get a deed poll when we get back to London and have it legally changed. To make me seem more exotic," she explained.

"It would," he agreed and tightened his hold on her, hoping to distract her from prodding him to contact Stonebridge.

"Sure, all of my degrees and certificates are in my current name, but I can just take some liquid paper to them. How hard can it be? Married people change their names all the time." She leaned down and laid a smacking kiss on his lips and then pushed away from him, evading his grabby hands and flopping out of the bed.

As she hobbled away, grimacing at stiff thigh muscles, she called back to the bed, "I'm going to shower. Call your client."

Sherlock thought he might have nodded, but a loud buzzing had filled his ears and he couldn't be sure of anything.

_Married people change their names all the time._

Oh. Hell.

* * *

><p>He'd lain there, wrapped up in Molly, listening to her even breaths late into the night. His mind had raced with all of the hard truths that he needed to face.<p>

Somehow, though it beggared belief, he was a married man.

_Somehow_? asked an annoying subconscious John Watson voice. _Maybe it's because the clod who performed the ceremony is a habitual showoff who can't translate Gàidhlig to save his life?_

"Shut up," Sherlock had growled before he hastened to stroke a soothing hand through Molly's hair when she'd stirred at his sudden outburst. She settled in again, snuffling against his shoulder. Distractedly, he kissed her forehead.

_Just pointing out the obvious, mate, _Hobgoblin John had continued more quietly._ You can hardly blame anyone else. _

"The stone's inscriber was likely drunk," he'd sniffed.

_Whatever helps you sleep at night. Though, you'll note you're not. Sleeping, that is. Why does it matter to you? It's not like you've signed any contract. There's no license, half of yours is not Molly's. Why do you think it's real?_

He'd shifted, uncomfortable.

_Is it because you're happ—_

Sherlock had slammed the door on that thought right away. "Society has extreme strictures on social contracts and the exchanging of vows. You'll remember my testament that I'd only ever make one vow? I'm merely concerned with the perceived ceremony of it and Molly's reaction."

John had remained smugly quiet to that, leaving Sherlock to stare unseeingly at the glow emitting from the stove. Ultimately, it was Molly who'd lured him to sleep. He'd even felt a surge of gratitude that she could halt his racing thoughts so handily.

In this case, literally handily.

She'd roused not long after he had banished John from his mind and gently, sleepily started tugging at him. All other thoughts fled as he'd rolled with her until he covered her body with his, her soft hands stroking him into renewed arousal and excitement.

The second time didn't lack the passion or fervor of their first bout of lovemaking, but it was also completely new and fascinating. As he moved in her, Sherlock had tried to separate the sensations of complete pleasure and mawkish captivation. His nerve endings experience all of the usual firing of neurons that occurred when he engaged in sex, but being like this with Molly felt like _more_.

He'd acknowledged his feelings for her a year ago, but had set a glacial pace in figuring out what he'd do with them. He had even admitted to himself that he—Christ—_loved_ her, but the fact that he'd have to do something about it eventually? That was what he'd struggled to reconcile.

Sex with her came part in parcel with that. Yes, he'd wanted to kiss her and hold her and do any of the things that human bodies _could_ do together, but he'd hung back. He had weighed the possibilities and probabilities and had come to too discrete a postulate to feel certain.

He felt none of that uncertainty now.

With her slight body beneath his, he realized his feelings for her could still surprise way he touched her was in homage to her, though he'd hardly call himself a reverent man. And this was to say nothing of Molly's feelings for him, a nervous question that had been the main source of his hesitance. The way she held him and touched him _must_ have been in similar tribute to him. How could he misinterpret it?

He had watched color build steadily in her cheeks with each thrust of his body and the dark glitter of her eyes when they would open heavily. The bite of her nails into his skin acted as a grounder, though it was one that made him move more frenziedly and moan into her open mouth.

When he came not long after, and Molly had manhandled him some more (she really had a skill) until he lay with his head pillowed between her breasts, thoughts of panic or nerves were the furthest things from his mind.

* * *

><p>That was then, this was now.<p>

Sherlock remained frozen in the bed, greasy panic swelling.

Not about the intimacy. Now that they'd made this step, he wasn't the sort to nobly backtrack and let it build to the point they'd so enthusiastically skyrocketed to hours before.

After all, he'd hate to let a good box of condoms go to waste, and making love with Molly felt really, _really _good.

Even as he swallowed around a vaguely nauseous feeling, he promised to himself that, even if she demanded that they get their marriage annulled (or whatever the pagan equivalent), he'd persuade her that they should continue to be intimate and solve crimes together.

See? Compromise.

_No, not compromise_, he scolded himself. It wasn't like he _wanted_ to be married or needed a consolation prize. He barked with laughter to show his subconscious just how ludicrous he found the notion. And then he comforted himself with affirmations.

He was a lone wolf.

A lone wolf who only _happened_ to be in love with someone.

A lone wolf who _merely_ wanted to continue his romantic and sexual relationship with her.

A lone wolf who wouldn't mind such an arrangement lasting until one of them died.

That was all. Nothing more.

_Maybe a Celtic divorcement is like the Talaq custom of saying, 'I divorce thee' three times_. Mind John had returned to the fray. _That'd make things simple, yeah?_

Sherlock unconsciously made a note not to mention Islam around Molly, just in case Talaq divorces sprang to mind for her, too.

Mind John grinned triumphantly. _Withholding information about convenient divorce customs. Spoken like a man who desperately wants out of his marriage._

"You're not real," Sherlock informed him He jumped out of the bed in a tear, scooping up the mobile Molly had set back on the bedside table when she'd gone to shower. The water still ran, and Sherlock stopped himself from staring longingly at partition. He glowered down at the phone and stabbed in Maurice Stonebridge's number, making a laundry list of things to do while it rang through.

Contact client Solve case (probably within one minute of speaking to said client) Shower Figure out a gentle way to tell his bride that she was, in fact, his bride Find the easiest way to secure a hasty, pagan divorce Ring his mother and inform her that he would never go with her to see _Billy Elliott: The Musical_ again Take Molly back to bed to forget this whole, sordid mess

"Mr. Holmes! You called me back!"

Maurice Stonebridge's nasal, public school voice interrupted Sherlock's list making. He turned on the speakerphone to get the shrill voice away from his ear and set to wrapping himself in a spare sheet from the wardrobe.

"Quite so," he agreed severely. "Because that is the etiquette, is it not? To return a call as soon as possible."

Stonebridge audibly quailed. "I know you called me. But I was taken in for further questioning about Posy, Brooks, and Theo. I wasn't ignoring you. And then I got sent down from the uni because I'm not fit for classes."

Sherlock scowled. He'd counted on getting the better of Stonebridge in order to feel better about his own situation, and the boy's continued trials did not help him achieve this.

"And what did the good police detectives of Stornoway and Cambridge have to say?"

"Nothing new," Stonebridge sighed. "Still no sign of my friends, so now they think I've helped them bugger out of the country."

"And did you?" Sherlock asked mildly.

Stonebridge sputtered. "Gor, no! They just left me! Maybe they're having a good laugh at me, I don't know."

"Hmm, probably," he agreed.

"Sherlock." Molly's warning voice carried from behind the privacy screen. He'd not heard the water shut off.

He shot her what he hoped was a saccharine smile as she came around the partition wrapped in a fluffy towel, her hair wrapped up in another.

She didn't buy his guile for a second and only shot him a quelling look.

Sherlock mumbled a sorry, both to her and Stonebridge. "I only have one question for you, actually."

"Yes?" Stonebridge's voice was wary.

"Why the bedrolls?"

"What?"

Sherlock sighed. "Why did you and your friends spend an exorbitant amount of money on camping bedrolls when you were staying in a well-appointed broch?"

"Oh! That! We wanted to camp out under the stars."

To think, Molly and he had nixed that idea, and with good reason. "You wanted to camp out under the stars in September in the Western Isles when it routinely sinks to 6˚ at night?"

Stonebridge had started squirming, if the shifting noises meant anything. "We didn't anticipate it being _quite_ that cold."

"And it's difficult to look up a weather forecast before you take a holiday. I completely understand," Sherlock said in falsely bracing tone.

Molly snapped his bottom with her towel as she walked past naked and he bit back a yelp.

"So," he said to Stonebridge while shooting a look at Molly that promised revenge, "your friends decided to take a late-night camping excursion and didn't come back."

"We all complained about the cold. Why would they do that?"

"That's what you're going to tell me." Sherlock's eyes narrowed on Molly, currently bent over in front of him while she rifled through her suitcase. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him leering, so she gave a small shimmy of her bum before stepping into some underwear and hauling on an enormous sweatshirt.

Sherlock pouted. Molly grinned.

"—radiant floor heating," Stonebridge wound down, apparently extolling all of the reasons why his friends wouldn't have sallied forth from the comfort of their broch.

"Hmm. Sure. But the bedrolls," Sherlock reminded him, snapping his eyes away from his human taunt.

"So did all of their clothing," Stonebridge pointed out miserably. "It's just as likely that they skived off without telling me and are now living as cow farmers, and no one is any the wiser."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Does one of your friends happen to resemble a _really_ angry, _really _old man, by chance?"

"Erm," Stonebridge said, "No. Why?"

"Never mind."

"Okay…. So you've found nothing, then?"

"Neither desiccated hide nor decomp-resistant hair of them," Sherlock chirped. Stonebridge made a muffled moaning sound, so Sherlock apologized again, this time without Molly's prompting.

"I should tell you, Mr. Holmes," Stonebridge trailed off. His voice had gone all squeaky. "The night Posy and the guys took off…."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, patience gone.

"It's just, well, we'd all had some molly."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he turned to squint at the pathologist sitting cross-legged on their bed, listening to the conversation with her chin resting on her hands.

She looked back at him, confused by his expression for a moment before it registered. She shook her head and mouthed _MDMA_.

Oh. Right. He knew that. Justifiable preoccupation.

He turned back to the matter at hand.

"And you didn't think that would be helpful information to pass along to, oh, I don't know, the police?" he asked sweetly.

"I was protecting them!" Stonebridge insisted desperately, and then said a little more quietly, "And myself. I—I didn't react well to it. I passed out. That's why I didn't wake up when they left the broch."

Sherlock massaged a sudden headache between his eyes. "Protecting them from what, exactly?"

"Well, it's illegal, isn't it? Brooks and Theo were in the Boat Club. They'd be expelled if the uni were to learn they'd done recreational drugs."

He sneered. "Yes, you're such a noble hero, saving your friends by failing to tell the police that they were under influence of psychoactive drugs when they disappeared. Anything else you've withheld?"

"No!" Stonebridge insisted. "That is it!"

"You're sure? Did they also mention in passing their plans to visit a gingerbread cottage owned by a grizzled, old woman in a witch's hat?"

The boy gave mewling apologies, but Sherlock disconnected the call, fed up. He flung himself onto the bed next to Molly, angry and not entirely sure why.

Her mouth twisted. "What do you want to do?"

He gave a half shrug. "Inform the constabulary that they need renew their search for bodies, I suppose. I doubt they're alive."

"Those poor kids."

He bit off a retort, recognizing the source of his confusing anger at the last moment. An addict criticizing some university students for taking drugs was more than hypocritical.

"The comedown from it is awful," he admitted to the roof of the yurt. "Lockjaw and anxiety. The worst is the memory loss, of course. You have no idea what happened and you wonder where you are. People sometimes die on their first go of it."

Molly lay down beside him, wrapping an arm around him. "Did you take it often?"

He shook his head. "I mostly stuck to heroin."

She kissed his cheek. "And now you're going get some answers for these missing kids, and that will give their families and friends some kind of comfort, even if it's not the kind they're hoping for."

He turned and studied her quiet face and then stretched forward to kiss her forehead for several, lingering seconds.

"I supposed it would be uncouth for me to show up at the Stornoway constabulary wearing only a sheet," he said when he drew back, trying for some levity.

"Says the man who felt no compunction about traipsing through a royal palace in the same state of undress," she pointed out wryly.

"What can I say? I've healthy respect of authority, but only the real kind."

Molly snorted. "Greg will be glad to hear it, I'm sure. Tell me: how many badges have you stolen from him so far this year?"

"Whose badges?"

She swatted his shoulder and he grinned. "I only take them as _needed, _Molly. I abhor waste."

"Ah, an environmentalist."

"Indeed." He tried to look modest.

"Go shower," she laughed a little. "We should get moving. It's already late morning."

"Yes, the police await and we also need to figure out what to do about our accidental marriage," he said absently as he rolled to press a warm kiss on the pulse in her neck.

Molly stilled. "What?"

Sherlock retraced his words. Panic froze him where he was, mouth against her skin. "Oh. Yes." He cringed, face uncomfortably hot so he kept it hidden in her neck, his words muffled. "About that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Hello all! Thank you so much for your lovely comments in the last chapter, and to all who've followed and/or favorited or given kudos to the story! I hope to have the next chapter up next Tuesday, but it all depends on my inability to wrap a single present or bake a single pie in any sort of timely manner. Ah, the holidays.

Chapter title (and entire the chapter intro's nonsense) is from the best Latin pop song to come out of Columbia, "La Camisa Negra" by Juanes. Can't recommend it enough.

Thank you so much to **dietplainlite **for the betaing and patience while I work through things that really shouldn't be as complicated as I make them!


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